


FINDING NÁMO

by erestor



Series: KNAVE [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 114,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erestor/pseuds/erestor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do not worry about the "character death" warning: I only write happy endings. This is actually the story of Orophin, and of his brothers - how they became who they are today. Not what you expect...
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

"…and this is the reason we allowed the men of the Northern Woods to use the bridge across the Bruinen. It was a deal both sides profited from, and right now, your ada is dancing with a green and yellow striped Balrog in the courtyard – are you paying any attention at all, Elladan?"

"Huh?" the young lord replied, focusing his attention on a rather grumpy Erestor. For the last half hour he had stared out of the window, watching the preparations for the departure of the guests in the next morrow in the courtyard, and indeed – he had not heard a single word of Erestor's lecture.

Erestor sighed, and stepped beside the young Elf.

"Elladan – I am well aware that this is not as exciting as the goings-on down there – but it is important. You need to know these things if you want to be a support and help to your father, and when he leaves for The Havens by the end of this year, responsibility for all of Imladris will be with you."

Elladan blushed.

"I am sorry, Master Erestor. I know this is important, but there are so many things going through my mind right now – I find it difficult to concentrate."

Erestor looked over Elladan's shoulder, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Aha," he said, and smiled when he witnessed what had become a daily ritual.

Eldanar, the Elfling Haldir and Orophin had found in the woods, sat on the border of the fountain, dangling his legs and eating an apple. The boy had literally blossomed under the loving attention in Rivendell, and it was obvious that he had taken a special liking to Orophin.

No matter whether Orophin returned from a patrol or a walk with Estorel – Eldanar was sitting in the same place, waiting for him. He'd shyly follow the Elf and, eventually, slip his hand in Orophin's, and together they would walk back to the Last Homely House. If Orophin stopped to talk to somebody, Eldanar would cling to his leg, hiding, burying his face in the Galadhrim's cloak.

Erestor knew that Orophin had a special way with children – they loved him, all of them, which must be a special gift from the Valar. Even Estorel quietened down when Orophin carried him, and though Erestor would never have mentioned it – he even had a calming influence on Glorfindel.

Tomorrow, Eldanar would leave. Arwen and Estel had kindly offered to take the boy with them to Minas Tirith, to live at their court. "The little one needs a home, and he is very self-conscious about his ears," Arwen had stated, "so it is nothing but logical to let him grow up in a place where nobody notices the difference."

Lord Elrond could not find anything speaking against this conclusion of female logic, and had been delighted by this offer. Unlike Eldanar who, despite being told over and over by everybody what a lucky boy he was, going to live at the king's court, was not looking forward to leaving Rivendell at all. He had quickly grown fond of the people here, and like most children, he had roots which grew fast and deep, and transferring such a fragile little plant to another place is neither an easy nor a very wise thing to do.

"I will miss him," Elladan said, and sighed. Ever since the day of the departure had been announced, his heart had grown heavier, and the closer the departure, the more silent Orophin became.

"We all will," Erestor said, and smiled. "Especially Bramble, who has taken a deep liking to the young one. Did you know that she was teaching him how to catch crayfish?"

Elladan laughed.

"Oh yes, I know! He fell in the water and came home dripping wet, and when we undressed him, there was a crayfish in his pocket!"

"Young ones always carry strange things in their pockets. I remember how I once almost scared my sister to death when she found a living frog in one of my pockets."

Elladan looked up in surprise.

"Your sister? I did not know you had a sister, Master Erestor."

A dark shadow fell over the advisor's face.

"She is dead, like all of my family. I lost them all on the same day - I was the only one to make it out of Gondolin alive."

Elladan hugged Erestor, and had to smile when he felt that his embrace was returned. How very much Erestor had changed – not too long ago, he would have snapped the head off anybody who dared to approach him in this way.

When Elladan let go, Erestor straightened up, a little embarrassed, and tugged his robe into place.

"Have you considered keeping the boy here?" he asked, and Elladan started.

"Keeping him? How? Where? What do you mean?" he asked, and Erestor shrugged.

"You and Orophin – have you not thought about keeping him with you?"

Elladan began to pace the room.

"Ai, the thought has crossed my mind, but it is not possible. We have so many duties, and then – two males raising a child, this would not be looked upon favourably."

Erestor cocked an eyebrow and looked down his long nose at Elladan.

"Indeed – is it not?" he said, and Elladan quickly added: "Your case is different, Master Erestor – but see, the customs of men especially are different from ours. There have already been rather unfriendly notes regarding my wedding landing on my father's desk. They object to the fact that a male bound to a male will rule over Imladris – now imagine their reaction if they hear that the next heir of Imladris will be a child we found in the woods!"

Erestor was close to saying where, in his opinion, men could stick their customs and protests, but kept quiet, for this would not be a shining example of diplomacy for Elladan.

* * *

The very moment Eldanar caught the first glimpse of Orophin and five guards down the main street, he stuffed the apple-core into one of his pockets and ran towards the Galadhrim.

"Look, your knave is waiting for you already," Mela joked, and Orophin smiled warmly when he saw the little boy. But then he remembered the message in his saddle bag, and his smile froze. He would have to talk to Eldanar today, and it was a conversation no child should have to endure.

"'phin! 'phin!" Eldanar cried, and waved both hands. Orophin, without halting his horse, grabbed the boy, lifting him up and settling him in front of him. Eldanar beamed like the spring sun above, and Orophin ruffled his hair.

"Now, young master Eldanar, what have you done today?" he asked.

"I went hunting with Bramble. I caught a crayfish!" the Elfling said, and then he described enthusiastically how he had hunted down his prey all by himself, and without falling in the river, and Orophin, whose hair stood on end at the mere thought of the child falling into the Bruinen, managed a smile and told Eldanar that he would become great hunter one day.

The boy blushed with pride.

"Rabbit watched us and he said so, too," he grinned, and Orophin released a sigh of relief. Rabbit had been there, so all was well. No river spirit would dare to lure a child with Rabbit near.

"He said I would be a great hunter and warrior, like you and my ada. My ada was the greatest of all warriors, you know. He wore this golden armour when he rode away, all shiny and sparkling. Will I get an armour too when I'm grown up, 'phin?"

Orophin's heart contracted painfully when the boy mentioned his father, and the message in the saddle bag weighed down his soul like a heavy stone.

"Why not? I am sure you will look splendid in armour, and I have no doubt that you will be a great warrior one day," he said, faking cheerfulness, and Eldanar grinned again and snuggled into Orophin's arm.

"Listen, penneth – there is something I wish to talk about with you. What do you say – shall we go in the garden, where we will be alone?"

Eldanar, not suspecting anything unpleasant, nodded, and did not notice the pitiful looks of Mela and the other guards, who waved Orophin good-bye when he directed his horse into the forest while they rode on towards the Last Homely House.

It was a short ride, and before long, they arrived in a small clearing. Orophin halted his horse, slipped out of the saddle and lifted Eldanar down, placing the child carefully on the ground. They boy looked around – he had never been here before.

"Oh, what is this?" he asked, and ran towards a monument which was almost fully overgrown by a rose bush.

Orophin didn't answer, just followed the boy.

Eldanar walked around the monument, tried to shift the ranks of the bush aside and yelped when he stung his finger on a thorn. He sucked on the hurt finger, then he gasped.

"Oh! This is your name, 'phin! Here! 'O-ro-phi' – see? I learned my letters well!"

Orophin stroked the child's hair lovingly, then he sat down on the soft leaves which covered the ground in front of the monument, and Eldanar followed, snuggling up to him.

"Yes, this is my name, Eldanar. Do you know what this monument is here for?"

Eldanar thought about it for a moment, then he shrugged.

"To let everybody know that you are a great warrior?" he guessed, and Orophin smiled.

"This is a nice thought, but – see, I must tell you something, Eldanar, and I know that this will not be easy to understand or accept for one as young as you are. I even doubt an Elf who had lived many millennia could understand it – indeed, I do not fully understand it, either. But will you try?"

Eldanar nodded, and put his thumb in his mouth, as he always did when he was tired, concentrating or confused.

Orophin cleared his throat.

"This monument here was build by Lord Elladan, little one. He… it was… you see, he built it in memory of me."

Eldanar cocked his head.

"Memory? So not to forget you when you are away?" he asked, and Orophin nodded.

"Yes. Some time ago, there was a great battle. Not as big as the battle your ada went to fight, but big enough."

Eldanar slipped his thumb out of his mouth.

"Did you fight, too?" he asked.

"Yes. I did fight, too." Orophin answered, which impressed Eldanar greatly.

"Oh! Did you wear shiny armour, like my ada?"

Orophin tried to remember the time in Tíngel forest, but it was difficult. He remembered being cold, lonely and in pain – and there had been comfort, too. Whispered words, stolen touches – he shook his head, as if to chase away these ghosts of the past.

"No, I did not wear armour, little one. But I was fighting, and then I was hurt."

Eldanar's eyes got big like saucers.

"You were hurt? Oh 'phin, was it bad?"

Orophin hated to scare the child, but this had to be told.

"Yes, little one. I was hurt so badly that Mandos came to take me with him to the Halls of Waiting, where all my friends were waiting for me."

Eldanar almost forgot to breathe, so captivated was he by this tale.

"You went with Mandos? But my ada said only dead Elves see him?"

Orophin looked into the scared blue eyes of the child, and pressed a gentle kiss on the soft silver blond hair.

"Yes, only dead Elves. This is what I am trying to tell you: I died in this battle. My beloved Elladan thought he would never see me again, so he built this monument so he would always remember me."

Eldanar had now tears in his eyes.

"I do not understand this, 'phin! Why are you here when you are dead? Oh, this is a horrible story!"

"Shhh," Orophin soothed the child, gently rocking him. "As you see, I am here. King Gil-galad and Amaris brought me with them when they returned from the Halls of Waiting, so here I am."

"The pumpkin king brought you back?" Eldanar gasped, and despite the serious situation, Orophin had to smile.

"Yes, the pumpkin king – but you really should not call him this in public, Eldanar."

"But Lord Elrond calls him pumpkin, too!"

"He is allowed to."

"Awww… I want to grow up very fast, because I want to have all the fun, and then I will be a great warrior in shiny armour and I can call everybody pumpkin!"

Eldanar wiped away his tears and began to play with Orophin's braids.

"Now, Eldanar – I told you this tale for a reason. It is important that you understand that nobody is gone just because he enters the Halls of Waiting. Sooner or later, we all return, just like we all die – it is the circle of life. Do you understand this?"

"Yes – I know all about fëas, Master Erestor taught me."

"Good. So, while I was in the Halls of Waiting, I thought of my beloved Elladan every single second. I did not forget him, I did not love him less, and I missed him greatly. Do you believe me?"

"Oh yes," Eldanar answered, and nodded, "Elladan said he loves you very much, too."

Orophin took a deep breath.

"When you came here and told us how you had to leave your home and that your ada went to Helm's Deep, I wrote to my friends in the Golden Wood to see if any of them knew what had happened to your ada, or knew where he was now."

Eldanar perked up, all excited.

"You found my ada? Really? Where is he? When will he come to see me?"

Orophin hugged the child close.

"Eldanar – I am very, very sorry, but your ada fell in that battle. He will not come back – Mandos called him, and he followed."

The child in his arms turned to stone, and big, unbelieving blue eyes looked up at him.

"Dead? My ada is dead?" he whispered, and Orophin nodded, hugging the child even closer to his chest.

"Yes, my little star, your ada is dead. But just like I thought of Elladan every second, your ada thinks of you, and he is always with you. Never think that you are unloved, for I am sure he will always watch over you, no matter where you are or what you do."

No sound came from the child, for Eldanar had slipped his thumb back into his mouth and sucked fervently.

"I have received word from one of your Ada's friends. His name is Sildil, he fought by his side and was with him when… it happened. He wrote that your ada talked about you all the time and was very proud of you, saying you were the best son any Elf could have."

Eldanar looked up.

"He will not come back?" he whispered, and Orophin saw that he was crying.

"One day he will, Eldanar, I am sure of this."

"How will I know him? He will look different! I want my ada now, I do not want to wait," the boy sobbed, and Orophin stroked his back.

"Oh – you will know him, believe me, you will."

Eldanar sobbed into Orophin's uniform and soaked the garment with his tears, but the Galadhrim didn't notice. The child's pain cut deep into his heart, and he wished he could do anything to help the boy.

"It is good that you cry, Eldanar – tears can help a pained heart more than one of Lord Elrond's draughts."

"This is not fair! He just went away and left me alone! Nobody loves me or wants me!" Eldanar cried, and Orophin shook his head.

"This is not true, little one, we all love you very much. And look, Arwen and Estel love you so much that they will give you a new home, and they will love you like one of their own children. You mean a lot to all of us, and we will always be there for you if you need us."

Eldanar struggled to his feet and freed himself of Orophin's embrace.

"Liar! Liar! You do not want me! You already have an Elfling, you do not want another one! You just send me away because you hate me and because you do not like my ears! I hate you!"

With that, the child ran away as fast as if a Balrog was following him with a whip, but Orophin stayed where he was. He knew well how the boy must feel – had he not been a child without a home, too? Believed that nobody loved him or cared for him? Yes, Orophin knew all about pain and loneliness, and he swore to himself that this boy would never, ever have to endure what he had gone through.

A determined expression on his face, Orophin got up and went to look for Eldanar.

"How dramatic. How touching," Irmo, also known as Lórien sighed, and he propped up on his elbows. The Master of Dreams lay on his front, and watched Orophin disappear among the trees. "Did you really call the child's father?" he asked, and Námo nodded.

"Oh yes – horrible wound, there was nothing the healers could do. He would have welcomed me, for he was in great pain, if there had not been the fear for his child's well-being."

"So how did you convince him to follow you then? When it comes to their offspring, Elves are incredibly uncooperative and stubborn," Irmo asked, and Námo smiled.

"I promised him that I would make sure his son would find a new family."

Irmo got up, and brushed some non-existent leaves from his robes, because he felt that he looked rather elegant doing it.

"And you have kept your promise – in a most generous way, if I may say so. Many will envy him, living with the King of Gondor."

Námo shook his head, then he slipped down from the monument he sat on.

"My dear Irmo, for a Vala, you are amazingly slow on the uptake. And now please excuse me, I have important matters to attend."

With that, he directed his steps towards the Last Homely House, leaving a rather baffled Irmo behind, who thought that Námo, who could be anywhere he wanted, spent an amazing amount of time sitting on monuments and watching the petty squabbles of the Firstborn.

* * *

Elrond sighed, then he closed the book and shoved it over the table, where Gandalf took it and put it away in this bag.

The Lord of Imladris ran his hands through his hair, and shook his head.

"This is driving me insane, Mithrandir - for months, we have looked through every book and every scroll in my library, and did not find a single word about the ring which has influenced Galadriel's actions in such an unfavourable way. And nothing has happened, either - Firinwë did not steal the ring without a purpose. Why is she not using it? What is her plan? And where is she?"

None of the Elves gathered around the table answered, but they all looked worried. Glorfindel was the first to speak.

"My lord - maybe the ring only had power while in Galadriel’s possession? Maybe a normal Elf could not use its power?"

Some nodded, others shook their heads.

"We know all about the rings of power - but nothing about this one. But there must be some information somewhere, otherwise Firinwë, who is not exactly the brightest pebble on the beach, would not have bothered to steal it. Maybe she had a partner in crime? Somebody who helped her?" Erestor said, and again, some agreed, some didn't.

"Oh, by the Valar, this is not leading anywhere," Gil-galad grumbled, rather annoyed, and leant back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "We have discussed this over and over again - I say: none of your warriors and scouts were able to locate this Firinwë-tramp. Nothing has happened yet. As unpleasant as it is I am most afraid that we will have to wait until something happens before we can react."

Celeborn nodded, though his heart was bleeding that he had to agree with Gil-galad.

"The king is right. There is nothing we can do but wait."

Galadriel, who had not spoken so far, stood up.

"My friends - I have no mirror anymore to advise and guide me, but still I can see more than any of you. Yet even to me, the future is unknown - whatever powers are ruling here, they are above mine. I feel that we are in danger, but I agree with Celeborn - we will have to be patient and wait."

"I do, however, suggest that we use this time of waiting to prepare ourselves, my lord," Erestor said, "let us collect all forces, increase the guards at the borders and undertake everything that is needed to keep our people safe."

Elrond got up as well, and nodded.

"You are right. Glorfindel, I wish you to start tomorrow to make plans to improve the protection of our borders. Erestor, I want every part of the Last Homely House checked for damage and, if necessary, repaired. Melpomaen - have you noted everything down?"

The young advisor, who had scribbled away as quickly as he could and had even managed to divide his attention between the ongoing discussion and Lord Celeborn, nodded

"Aye, my lord."

"Good. So I suggest we finish this discussion now, you all have a long ride ahead of you tomorrow, and will need the rest."

Galadriel, Celeborn and Gandalf left the room, and only Gil stayed behind. He dragged the tired Lord of Imladris towards the window where he flopped in a comfortable chair and made Elrond sit on his lap, which was rather childish, but at the same time also very comforting.

Elrond buried his face in Gil's hair.

"Beloved - how can I leave Middle earth at a time like this? What if nothing happens by the end of the year? I could not leave my children here, battling such danger!"

Gil stroked his back.

"Elrond - I do not wish to play down the fact that we might be in great danger. But there is always a threat somewhere. Elladan is wise and strong - I am sure he will handle every situation. Our time here has come to an end. You are tired, beloved, and worn out. It is time to leave duties to the younger ones, and I have every faith in your son."

Elrond sighed, but enjoyed the attention from his lover. How long had he been without somebody to care for him! He felt like a small plant which began to grow and strengthen in the warming rays of Gil-galad's love, and he knew that the king was right: his time here was over, and now it was Elladan's turn.

"Elladan - yes, I know he will protect Imladris. But I am worried - you should see some of the messages I got from the realms of men."

Gil sighed.

"I know - they do not understand our way of living, and so they fear it. But in the end, this will be Elladan's battle, not yours. He has chosen his husband, and I have no doubt that he will see to it that his choice will be respected, be it by Elf, Dwarf of Man. And do not underestimate Orophin, either - he has the authority of a king, and will never allow any harm to come to your child."

"I know, Gil, I know," Elrond said, and snuggled closer into Gil's arms. "My son has made an excellent choice with Orophin. Elrohir, on the other hand..." Elrond broke off, and shook his head.

"Oh. Is he still speaking with invisible people?" Gil-galad asked, and Elrond nodded.

"Yes. And he refuses to let me examine him. He says he is only tired. But he has been seen by many, talking to somebody who is not there. I do fear his mind is - troubled in some way, but he will not allow anybody to help him."

"Maybe he is lonely? I know that some Elflings invent invisible friends when they have nobody to talk to."

"Elflings, yes. I have read about this. But Elrohir is a grown-up Elf. There were never any problems with him, he was perfect in everything he did - and now this. I am really at my wits end, beloved."

Gil kissed Elrond gently.

"Do not worry, Elrond. I am sure everything is fine with Elrohir. Maybe he is trying to get attention? I’m sure it must have been a great shock for him to be separated from his brother when Elladan got married. Twins are much closer to each other than normal brothers, as you surely know."

For a while, neither of them spoke, they simply enjoyed each other's nearness and company. Then Elrond looked up, and cupped Gil's face with his hands.

"I am very, very glad that you are here, Gil."

Gil smiled, and kissed the tip of Elrond's nose.

"Thank you. And I can assure you that you will not be able to get rid of me any time soon, love."

Elrond rested his head on Gil's shoulder, and closed his eyes. He wished so much that Gil was speaking the truth, and that he would never, ever lose him again. Yes, when he reached out to touch Gil's mind, he felt the love, he knew that his words were true. Elrond's face was imprinted in Gil's mind like the tattoos in Rabbit's skin.

The only problem was that Elrond's face was not the only one.

* * *

"It is starting to show, darling," Glorfindel said, and looked dotingly at his husband.

Erestor looked down at his slightly protruding stomach, and smiled.

"Yes - not too long, and I will be able to feel the Elfling."

The advisor continued to sort the scrolls, and once in a while, he made a note, while Glorfindel helped Estorel build a tower with his building blocks. The real fun about the whole thing was to smash the tower down once it was finished, which made Estorel giggle and laugh to no end.

"Your son has a rather destructive streak, dear Erestor," Fin said, watching Estorel throwing the blocks around, and he ducked when one flew in his direction.

"How come, dear Glorfindel;" Erestor said, without looking up from his work, "that every time our Elfling is doing something bad, he is my son, while every positive achievement is credited to your offspring? I was under the impression that he was our son."

Fin grinned.

"My dear, it is one fool-proof way to wind you up, how could I let such a chance pass by unused? I love it when you get all angry and annoyed. It adds to your charms."

Erestor quickly looked up and glared at Glorfindel.

"There are days when I really wonder why I married you, Fin," he grumbled, and Glorfindel gave him his most charming smile.

"Oh, there are many reasons, dear advisor of my heart. First: I am the most beautiful Elf on Arda. Second: I am intelligent beyond belief. Third: I know "Mirkwood Love Secrets" by heart and have performed position no. 17 four times in one night without collapsing."

"Fin! You are incredible!" Erestor cried, and Fin nodded.

"Yes, I am - thanks for reminding me. That would be reason number four, of course."

Estorel again sent all the building blocks flying across the floor with great noise, clapping his hands and cheering.

"See?" Fin said, "Estorel agrees! Now what a clever Elfling you are, penneth!"

He tickled the child, and Estorel giggled, curled up and struggled.

Erestor sighed.

"Fin - how am I supposed to finish this translation with this noise? Why not go for a walk with Estorel? The weather is beautiful, and I could join you in a short time."

"A wonderful idea, oh cranky one."

He got up, then quickly went over to Erestor, kissing him hard and slipping his hand under the advisor's tunic. The surprised Elf gasped, arching under Glorfindel's skilled hands. When he heard Erestor moan, Fin released him, straightened his tunic and grinned.

"We shall leave you to your work now, beloved. See you later!"

With he took Estorel by the hand and headed for the door.

Erestor, who sat in his chair all flushed and worked up, howled: "And what was that supposed to be?"

"This, dear Erestor, was reason number 5 why you love me: because I am such a wonderful tease."

With that, he was out of the door, and Erestor had to think of Lady Firinwë for at least five minutes to get his body back into a state where he was able to finish his work.

At least she was useful for something.

* * *

In Mirkwood too, spring had come early this year. Though these were the first days of March, the sun was already shining warmly and nature was in full bloom, a fact which pleased Legolas greatly.

Less pleased, however, was he about the Elf who sat in a tree close to the banks of the pond. Legolas and his friend had used the warm weather to have a swim, and after lots of laughter and dunking each other, they were now lazily floating on their backs, listening to the song of love lost which was heard from the direction of the tree.

"This is just not the time and place for singing," Legolas grumbled, and sent a sinister look in direction of his uncle, the Elf who sang.

"Why not?" Feon asked, a good friend of the prince and only a couple of decades older than him. "If it is a good time for swimming, then it is also a good time for singing."

Legolas snorted.

"Yes, and inviting every Orc within hearing distance for dinner."

Feon laughed.

"My dear Legolas, if the Orcs were not alerted by your squeaks when I dunked you, they will certainly not be alerted by this sweet voice. And do not worry about getting eaten: they would let you go after the first bite, sourly grump that you are."

Legolas rolled his eyes.

"And here goes another fool falling for Amaris' charms. Really, Feon – what is wrong with you? I would have thought you to have more sense than all the stable hands and chamber maids who dissolve in pools of melted butter whenever he passes by."

Again, the dark-haired archer laughed.

"Ai, Legolas – do I hear envy in your voice? A tiny bit of jealousy, even?"

Legolas stood up, the water running in rivulets down his body.

"Envious? Jealous? Me? Because of him? Never!"

Feon giggled, then he batted his lashes.

"Aw, poor little Legolas, did you not get enough attention lately? No chamber maids? No stable grooms? Dear me – it sure looks like you will have to start braiding your hair properly and washing your face once in a while."

Legolas crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.

"Some friend you are – so you have fallen for his so-called charms, too, I reckon?"

Feon smiled, then he sighed dreamily.

"Ai, Legolas – he is without a doubt the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. Those eyes! That smile! This voice! You know that I am not interested in males, but by the Forest Spirits, I would reconsider this point of view if your lovely uncle were ever to smile at me!"

Legolas shuddered.

"Do not call him my uncle! I do not have an uncle, the only one I had was lost back in the Great Battle, fighting bravely for our people and dying in the process."

Feon got up, and wrung out his long hair. He shook his mane, and sent water drops flying all over the place. Then he looked at Legolas, serious now.

"Legolas, you may not like it, but no tantrum of yours will change the course of events. He is your uncle, he is here, and you will have to deal with it. And as he is your father's older brother, he could actually claim the throne of Mirkwood if he wanted - he is the head of the clan. No matter how much this rubs your fur the wrong way: you owe him your allegiance."

Legolas' eyes flashed.

"Older brother – the laugh! He is only 700 years old! A third of my age! And this story about returning from the Halls of Mandos – why is everybody believing it? He could be anybody! He could be an evil wizard! He could be the Dark Lord in disguise! He could be…"

"… the uncle of an Elf who fell on his head once too often," Feon finished the sentence, and shook his head. "Really, Legolas, I do not understand what your problem is. We all know that Mandos does release souls from his halls at times – just think of Lord Glorfindel."

Legolas tried to run his fingers through his hair, but got stuck in the mats. Another infuriating thing about Amaris – his hair. Even after a wild ride, the blond tresses would fall down his back like silk. No strand ever got loose, no braid ever lost its clasp, and no tangle would ever dare to even look at Amaris' hair. The Elf was perfect – in every way. Everybody loved him, so it was only natural that Legolas couldn't stand him. Standing beside his uncle, the prince of Mirkwood felt even more inferior than usual. Being compared to his father was hard, but being compared to Amaris was – cruel. At least his ada had some faults, be it his temper, his sometimes colourful interpretation of the truth or his love for gems and silver. But Amaris – Amaris was perfect.

Feon knew what was going on in Legolas' head – he had known him for almost all of his life, and he could read his face as he would read a book. Despite his often demonstrated rough ways, Feon knew that deep inside the other Elf there was a very soft center, and he knew that every time somebody complimented Amaris, Legolas took it as a personal insult.

The two Elves hadn't paid attention to the fact that Amaris had stopped singing, so they started when he suddenly stood on the bank, only a short distance away, and Legolas wondered if he had overheard their conversation.

If he had, he did not show it, only smiled at the two Elves, and Feon was glad he was still up to his waist in the water, for this smile did most interesting things to his body. He bowed his head, and Amaris returned the greeting, ignoring Legolas’ deliberate refusal to extend the greeting that custom and respect demanded.

"This is a lovely place for swimming," Amaris said, "I almost forgot about it."

"Did you?" Legolas asked, "Forget it, I mean? Or have you, maybe, never been here before?"

Feon winced and prepared for a sharp reprimand from Amaris, but the Elf only smiled.

"No, my dear nephew, I remember this place well. It was here I first tried the spell to turn myself into a sea dragon – as you know, sea dragons are the pet of choice for us evil wizards. However, after a while I gave up trying to be a wizard and began training as Dark Lord - alas, again I failed. Though I still think Saruman's Orcs looked lovely in their pink uniforms."

Feon couldn't help but snicker, which earned him an evil look from Legolas. Amaris stretched his body, then he looked at the two Elves in the water.

"I see that I have dealings here with two great warriors," he said, and gestured at the markings on Legolas' and Feon's bodies. A rune for every battle won, merging into intricate patterns which began on the neck and went down the shoulders. Though Legolas was younger, the tattoos reached halfway down his back already - his adventures had earned him the right to wear them. But Feon also proudly displayed his victories.

"Yes, indeed, you have, and you had better not forget this, uncle," Legolas snapped, and stormed out of the water, grabbing for his clothes and, with a last angry look at Amaris, disappearing into the woods.

Feon sighed.

"I am sorry, my lord - he is a good Elf, though a little - unpolished, if I may say so."

Amaris laughed.

"There is no need to apologize - he has inherited his father's temper. Who inherited his father's temper. So you see - it is, as usual, all Oropher's fault."

Feon wasn't sure if it was appropriate to laugh at this joke, so he asked: "And you, my lord, have inherited your father's temper, too?"

Amaris smiled - it was a predatory smile, showing two rows of perfect, pearly white teeth, and Feon felt his knees go weak.

"Me? Oh - I am not sure. You see, my father had many - talents and weaknesses."

"Oh? He had?" asked Feon, who could hardly remember King Oropher, but had been more than once on the receiving end of one of Thrandúil's or Legolas' tantrums.

"Like - what?" he added, and Amaris smiled again while he kicked off his boots, pulled the tunic over his head, slipped out of his breeches and almost caused Feon a heart attack. Now this was a sight - a lean, strong body, all sinew and elegance, like a wildcat, and Feon caught his breath when he saw the pattern which ran from Amaris' neck down his chest, narrowing toward his abdomen, and pointing like an arrow towards Amaris groin. Feon immediately forgot all about kings and princes and personal preferences - he wanted Amaris. Now. Please.

Amaris stepped into the water, without causing even so much as a small wave, and stood opposite Feon, who was gasping for air.

"To answer your question, dear young friend - he could not, for example, pass any beautiful Elf," Amaris said, then he reached out and pulled Feon close by his braids. He wrapped his body around the other's like a vine around a tree, held him tight by the traditional leather straps around his arms, licked his ear and purred:

"And as it just happens - neither can I."

* * *

It was a bad day, Eldanorien decided. For over a year now, she had been living in Rivendell, and still Elrohir hadn't managed to tell his father about her. In the beginning, it had been fun, the secrecy adding to the thrill of her new love, but by now, she was missing Mirkwood more and more every day. The little she saw of Lord Elrond's younger son was not enough to outweigh her homesickness, not any more, and recently, things had gone from bad to worse. He had stopped talking about the goings-on in the Last Homely House, and every so often, he would start up and look over his shoulder, as if somebody was standing behind him. Maybe it was true what her father used to say: the minds of the Half-elves were oddly wired, and though Elrohir was very fair of face, she had to admit to herself that she did not love him anymore.

So today, she had walked up to the Last Homely House, a made-up story at hand to explain her presence, but luckily, Master Erestor had welcomed her. Now that was one strange Elf if ever there was one - not only had he given birth to a child, which was odd enough, no, he also had this crow following his every step, and Eldanorien had a hard time keeping the bird out of her braids.

Master Erestor had been rather brief, explaining to her that Elrohir was, unfortunately, unavailable, and no, she couldn't wait for him here, either, as they had visitors, but he would tell Elrohir that she was waiting for him in her house. While the Mirkwood maid was not one lost for words under normal circumstances, the tall, dark Elf radiated authority, and she had felt instinctively that no gainsaying would be accepted, so she had bid her farewells and made her way back to her temporary home.

Various odd things had happened on the short way from the Last Homely House to her home - first, a flower pot had fallen off a window sill, crashing in front of her feet and almost giving her a heart-attack. Then she had only escaped by a hairs-breadth death by decapitation when the chains holding the huge sword which hung as an eye-catcher over the entrance of the blacksmith's workshop snapped and the heavy weapon fell down, slashing her skirt in the process.

Did the Valar hate her? It seemed so, for the next accident was already waiting for her, this time in the form of a huge branch which broke off a tree and almost crushed her. Eldanorien breathed a great sigh of relief when she finally arrived home and could close the door behind her.

A bad day, really. And so she went to her bedroom, took out the huge leather bag from under the bed and began to pack. Carefully, she folded skirts and shirts and placed them in the bag, then her shoes and all those small knick-knacks which she had collected over the year. Dried roses she had gotten from Elrohir; the book of 2nd age poems he had presented her with for her begetting day - all those little things she had enjoyed, and which now had lost their meaning.

"Elda? What are you doing?" a hesitant voice could be heard behind her, and without turning around, she put a dress in the bag, and answered: "It should be obvious, Elrohir. I am packing."

"Packing? But - why?"

He stepped closer to her, trying to embrace her, but she pushed him away.

"Elrohir - please. Let us part as friends."

"Part?"

Elrohir was baffled. Certainly, they had had some problems these last weeks; the presence of Gil-galad had demanded the greatest secrecy, and he couldn't risk telling her of the miracle which had occurred. Naturally, she must have assumed that he had cut her out of his life.

"My love, I know I have been neglecting you these last weeks, and I am most sorry for it, but I promise you, this will be over soon."

Again he tried to embrace her, and this time, she pushed him away a little harder.

"Elrohir - you have promised me a thousand times to tell your father about me. We even talked about getting married. I almost broke up with my family to come here, and have you talked to him? No. Over a year, and you could not find the heart to tell him that you love somebody from Mirkwood."

Finally, she turned around, and looked at Elrohir's face. He had blushed, and looked down at the tips of his boots, knowing well that she had every right to be upset.

"Look at me, Elrohir", she said, and he obeyed, only to take one step back in panic when he saw Námo standing behind her, watching with an amused smile the heavy fruit bowl which floated above her head.

"Come here, Eldanorien!" he shrieked, and dragged her away. Námo frowned, shrugged, and the fruit bowl slowly, slowly sank back onto the table, landing without a sound.

Eldanorien eyed him suspiciously. He got odder by the minute - it was indeed high time to end this.

"Look - I am not really angry, Elrohir. We had a good time, and I would not want to have missed it. But now it is time for our ways to part."

Elrohir wanted to say something, but got distracted by Námo who now stood beside Eldanorien, nodding enthusiastically.

"Will you stop this now!" Elrohir barked at him.

"I really do not think you are in the position to shout at me!" Eldanorien complained, rather taken aback.

"My apologies, love, I was not talking to you," Elrohir said, and gave Námo The Eyebrow As Seen On Elrond. The Vala rolled his eyes and shrugged again.

"Elrohir!" Eldanorien cried out. "You go too far! I will not have you mocking me!"

With that, she turned around, stuffed the last piece of clothing in her bag, laced it up and grabbed for her cloak.

"If you should see sense again, you can write me a letter. Until then - namaarië, Elrohir!"

With that, she walked past him, through the door which miraculously opened itself, though she didn't notice this in her fury, a fury which turned to rage when she heard the door closing with a loud "bang" behind her - the cheek, she thought, now he even slams the door shut behind me!

Elrohir sank on her bed, raking his hair in despair, and stared at Námo, who stood at the window and waved Eldanorien good-bye.

"One day, you will be the death of me," he groaned, shaking his head.

Námo turned around, elegant and soundless as usual, sat on the table, draped one leg over the other, and took one of the apples from the fruit bowl.

"Thank you, Elrohir," the Vala replied, still chewing, "I try to do my best."

* * *

Celeborn was already lying in his bed when he heard the faint, hesitant knock on the door. He frowned, for he certainly had no wish to talk to anybody in the middle of the night, but when the unwelcome visitor knocked for the third time, a little louder now, he slipped out of bed and called: "Stop tearing down the house, I am up already! Come in if you must!"

The door opened a little, and much to Celeborn's surprise Melpomaen slipped into the room, clutching a large scroll to his chest and looking rather uncomfortable.

It was not that Celeborn didn't like Melpomaen. He liked him very much, and had the times been different, he would have kept him as one keeps a toy, to be pampered and played with and eventually discarded in favour of a new toy.

But Celeborn had changed, and he even felt a little guilty about kissing the young advisor on Yule Eve. This innocent heart was neither match nor challenge for him, so he had been avoiding Melpomaen whenever possible.

Melpomaen had turned crimson red when he entered the room, seeing that Celeborn wore nothing but a pair of thin silk pants, which left little to his imagination, and if there was one thing which worked with excessive speed and effectiveness in Melpomaen, then it was his imagination. He had woken up the morning after Yule Eve, with a sore head and a sore heart. First he had thought that maybe the events of the last night had been nothing but a dream, caused by his longing, but soon enough he realised that he had actually really been kissed by Celeborn, and delight began to fight with terror in his heart.

Though he knew little about the dealings of the heart, he knew that this should not have happened, so the young advisor had decided to keep the kiss as a precious memory for dark days, and neither pursue nor ever mention the matter again, and he had gone out of his way not to meet Celeborn again.

But tonight, he had to come to him, for there was something important to discuss.

"My lord, I - my apologies for disturbing your slumber," he began, careful with his choice of words.

Celeborn scratched his head, then went over to the small table by the window and poured himself some wine.

"No need to apologise, Master Melpomaen. I was not asleep. Do you wish some wine, too?"

Melpomaen shook his head, a little too energetically, and Celeborn had to think again about how soft the brown tresses had felt when he ran his fingers through them, and now it was his turn to shake his head. Better not follow that train of thought.

"No, my lord, but I thank you for your generous offer."

"So, what has brought you here at this late hour, Master Melpomaen?" Celeborn asked after he had taken a sip of the wine.

Melpomaen stepped closer, and wet his lips with his tongue.

"My lord - I was thinking. About - the ring, you know, and the meeting we had today."

Celeborn looked up, his interest aroused.

"Yes? Please speak freely, Master Melpomaen - any information can be valuable."

The young Elf swallowed hard.

"Lord Elrond said that we could not find any information on the ring in any of the books or scrolls in Imladris."

Celeborn nodded - yes, these had been Elrond's words.

Melpomaen began to unroll the scroll he had brought along, and his eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Lord Celeborn - when I was back in my chambers, I read the transcript of the meeting, and when I came to this part of Lord Elrond's comment, I thought: what about the books and scrolls that are NOT in the library?"

Celeborn cocked an eyebrow.

"I am not sure that I can follow you there, Melpomaen..."

The advisor was too excited to notice that Celeborn had dropped the formal title, and he pointed at the scroll.

"This is a list of all the books and documents that are part of the library but are not, for some reason, here in Imladris at the moment. King Elessar has borrowed some tomes about the history of Gondor, for example, and some books are in Lothlórien at the moment. I cross checked this list with the index of the books, and found that there is one book which has not been given to anybody, but also is not here at the moment."

Celeborn, who now began to understand what Melpomaen was telling him, became very alert.

"You mean - there is one book missing?"

"Yes!" Melpomaen said, and gave Celeborn his biggest smile.

"There is one book missing! It was written in the beginning of the 1st age, my lord, and was always considered to be a parody or a joke, written by a rebel who wished to mock the Valar. This is why there are no copies of it save the one here in Imladris. It is called "The Creation Chronicles", and while I never read it, I found the index card."

Celeborn was all excited now.

"Do you have the card with you?" he asked, and Melpomaen nodded, passing the card on to Celeborn with trembling fingers.

The silver haired Elf read the summary of the book, looked up to Melpomaen, read again, then he ran one hand through his hair.

"This, my dear Melpomaen, is the most incredible thing I have ever read."

Melpomaen clutched the scroll to his chest.

"Is this of any help to you, Lord Celeborn?" he asked anxiously.

Celeborn looked up.

"Help? You ask if this is of any help? My dear Melpomaen - you might just have saved Middle earth from destruction. And now come, we must make haste and inform Elrond and the others about this."

He opened the door and walked quickly down the corridor to Elrond's chamber, not bothering to put on some clothes first, and Melpomaen followed him as best he could, despite all the excitement not missing the opportunity to admire Celeborn's backside, which showed most favourably in the silk pants.

Celeborn knocked on Elrond's door, and very soon, it was opened, revealing Elrond in a hastily thrown-on night robe and a rather annoyed Gil-galad wrapped in a bed sheet.

"I hope you have a good reason for turning up at this time of the night," Gil growled, and Elrond asked: "Celeborn - and Melpomaen? What does this mean?"

"This means that we know, thanks to this wonderful Elf here, who forged this dreaded ring, Elrond."

The Lord of Imladris paled, and grasped his robe.

"Melpomaen? But - how? Celeborn - pray tell, I need to know: who forged the evil ring? Sauron?"

Celeborn shook his head.

"No, Elrond, not Sauron."

He quickly looked at Gil-galad, then he sighed.

"Who, Celeborn, who forged the ring!" Elrond demanded to know.

Celeborn held out the index card, and Elrond took it.

"It was Námo, Elrond. The evil ring was forged by the Vala of Death."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Elrond blinked owlishly at Celeborn, then he noticed Melpomaen, who was hiding behind the Lórien-Elf.

"I beg your pardon?" Elrond asked, worried he might have misheard something.

"I said: Námo was the one who forged the Evil Ring, Elrond. We owe this mess to the Vala of Death!"

When Celeborn's words finally sunk in, Elrond paled.

"This cannot be, Celeborn! Where did you find this information?"

Celeborn saw how Gil slipped into his breeches. Despite the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help but feel angry that the High King was welcomed here while he was not. At least not naked.

But this was neither the time nor the place for personal feuds, so Celeborn tugged on Melpomaen's sleeve and dragged the blushing advisor in front of Elrond.

"Your most splendid young advisor here found what we old fools have been looking for these last months."

Melpomaen was embarrassed beyond words, and looked down at the toes of his soft shoes.

"Is this true, Melpomaen? Have you found the solution to this riddle?"

The young elf looked quickly up, bit his lip again and finally nodded. Elrond studied him for a moment, then he came to a decision.

"My library. In fifteen minutes. Melpomaen, summon everybody in my name, and I want you to be present, too."

Melpomaen nodded, and ran down the corridor to wake the lady Galadriel, Gandalf, Erestor, Glorfindel and everybody else who was needed, while Celeborn returned to his chamber to put on some clothes.

Elrond closed the door behind him, and took a deep breath.

"Beloved?" Gil said, and Elrond turned around.

"Yes?"

"I find this very hard to believe. I cannot imagine any reason why Námo should act the way Celeborn said."

"It does sound odd, I agree with you. But stranger things have happened, and we shall hear the young one out," Elrond said, then he knelt down and began to fish for his boots under the desk.

"Agreed. And while we are at it, you could also ask how come he is with Celeborn in the dead of night, with the lord wearing nothing but a pair of silk sleeping pants."

Elrond rolled his eyes.

"Your priorities never cease to amaze me. And do you really think an official meeting is the right place to bring up this matter, Gil?" he asked, and his lover snickered.

"Probably not, Elrond – but I would just love to see Celeborn's face."

The lord of Imladris didn't reply, but began to slip his boots on. If Celeborn began to cause trouble, he would have a serious word with his father-in law – especially if his amorous escapades should confuse young, impressionable Elves like Melpomaen.

Soon after, everybody was gathered in Elrond's study, all a little ruffled and yawning. Erestor sported an impressive love-bite on his neck, only partially hidden by the collar of his robe, and judging from Glorfindel's sour face, the two had been interrupted in the midst of something interesting. This observation led Celeborn's thoughts back to the lost opportunity that was Melpomaen, who was chewing nervously on his lip and fiddled with the scrolls in front of him. Celeborn felt pride for the young advisor's find - they all had been looking in vain for a clue or hint about this darned ring for months.

Melpomaen might talk too much and have skinny legs, but he certainly had a good head on his shoulders, and Celeborn, who had an eye for spotting talent in others, felt like patting him on the head. Or stroking his hair. Or…

"So, as we are all gathered here now, I would like you, Master Melpomaen, to tell those present about your findings."

Elrond's voice interrupted Celeborn's train of thoughts, and Melpomaen blushed again, cleared his throat and explained how, by comparing the library's inventory list with the list of the books not here at the moment, he had found the one book they had all been looking for. He took the index card he had brought along, and looked nervously around.

"I do not know about the content of the book, as I have never read it, and from what I understand, nobody else has, either. So all I have is the quote on the index card, but it is interesting enough."

He looked around to make sure everybody was listening, then he began to read:

"'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was jealous that others had a Ring of Power, but not him, and he envied Melkor his cunning heart. 'I have been cheated by a female, so doom for Middle-earth shall come from the hand of a female', he said, and he put a spell on the Dark Ring, that its power might only be awoken by the treachery of a female, one worthy in deceit to match his own, and then all Middle-earth would be destroyed, and a new world be created, where he would dwell and rule and be worshipped."

For a moment, there was silence.

"I find it very hard to believe, though it is obviously true, and does make sense," Glorfindel finally said, "what I do not understand, however, is why Námo placed the Dark Ring in Galadriel's mirror, for our fair lady is certainly not 'worthy in deceit to match his own'."

Erestor, who had folded his hands on the table in front of him, shrugged.

"We do not know when the ring was placed there, Glorfindel. It might be, and I hope you, my lady, will not take any offence at my words, that it was placed there in a time when the rebellion against the Valar took place. It might be that Námo saw evil in the lady where there was none, erred in his judgement."

"I am not offended at all, Master Erestor," Galadriel said, "with power there comes responsibility, and I know my weaknesses. Yes, there have been times when power greatly tempted me, but I realised in time and overcame the desire to rule more than my own realm. Your words make sense – back then, I was wilder, more eager to rule, it is very possible that Námo saw me as a potential tool to carry out his evil plan. But this leaves us with one question – why now? Why did the Ring awake now and not millennia ago?"

"Because for millennia, no treacherous heart has come close to the mirror, and certainly no female one," Rúmil threw in, and he gazed at Galadriel lovingly, squeezing her hand under the table.

Celeborn gnashed his teeth, but kept quiet. He looked up, and so did Elrond – and they both had the same thought. Elrond slapped his forehead and groaned:

"Firinwë!"

Various noses wrinkled in disgust, and Elladan winced, moved closer to Orophin, tugged on his sleeve and whispered in his ear:

"Poor Námo – this is harsh punishment."

"Quiet, please!" Elrond boomed, and nodded at Erestor, who got up. Immediately, all discussion died down.

"My lords, my lady – let me sum this up. Námo has forged another ring of power, which is, at the moment, in the possession of lady Firinwë. I think we all agree that, whatever her plans might be, no good can come of them for us. So we need to find her and destroy the ring. Surely Firinwë cannot carry out a cunning plan of this scope all alone, so she must have allies – Námo himself, I fear. We must find out where they are hiding and how we can defeat them."

"With all due respect, may I say something?" Orophin interrupted Erestor's speech, and everybody looked in surprise at Elladan's husband, who normally never contributed to discussions.

"Of course you may, Orophin. Please speak freely," Erestor said, and Orophin looked nervously at Elladan. When he saw his husband's encouraging smile, he straightened up.

"There is just one place where she could hide – the only place none of you has control over, where evil lurks and death has come from in the past. I think she hides in Tíngel Forest, and I am sure she does not dwell there alone. Think about it – where else would the Vala of Death feel comfortable in Middle-earth if not in Tíngel Forest, where so many of my kin have died?"

Elladan saw how Orophin clutched the fabric of his tunic to stop his hands from trembling, and gently stroked his arm.

"This is an excellent thought," Elrond said, and smiled at Orophin, "so I suggest we send word to King Thrandúil, for his realm is close to Tíngel, and ask him to join in an alliance with us. It might also be wise to inform Rohan, and warn the Shire and Dwarven folks."

"You can leave that to me," Aragorn said, "I am sure they will fight with us side by side. And what about Breon? The realm is close to Tíngel, too, and might be first to come under attack."

"Breon? We have had no dealings with Breon," Elrond said, and his eyebrows wandered towards his hairline.

"Nor would we have, under normal circumstances, but with a threat like this, surely every blade counts?"

"I would rather return to the Halls of Mandos than have dealings with Breon," Orophin hissed, and a dangerous fire was dancing in his eyes.

"I know, they are a little uncivilized and none too honest, but surely…" Aragorn began, but he was interrupted by Orophin's fist, which crashed down on the table.

"You have no idea what you are talking about!" Orophin shouted, and nobody had ever seen him so upset. He stormed out of the room, followed by Elladan who tried to catch up with him and calm him down.

"My apologies," Haldir said, visibly embarrassed, and bowed in the direction of Aragorn, "I am sure my fa… I mean I am sure it was not Orophin's intent to insult you, Sire."

Aragorn shook his head.

"No need to apologize, Haldir. I am sure there is a reason for his behaviour, and it is I who must apologize if I touched a sore spot with my words."

"Be that as it may, I think he was greatly over-reacting," Arwen said, and glared at Haldir.

Rúmil turned to Arwen, his eyes of an almost glacial blue.

"My lady – your son is an Elfling of 8 years. Would you wish to have dealings with people who would heat a branding iron in the fire and press the red-hot poker to his flesh to mark him as their property? Who would sell him as a slave and make him work hard in a black smith's shop? Who would clamp a collar around his neck and keep him like a dog? And if your son, after such treatment, should not wish to have dealings with these people, would you tell him not to over-react?"

Arwen shied back, and paled.

"By the Valar – how can you say such things! I would kill with my bare hands anybody who should even think to treat my child like this!" she gasped.

"Such are my feelings for the people of Breon. My brother bore the mark of slavery for many millennia, my lady, and though it is no longer visible, it will be forever branded in his soul and in his heart, and he will neither forgive nor forget."

Elrond cleared his throat.

"For the time being, we do not need the people of Breon, who, I agree with Rúmil, are not the kind of allies I wish to associate myself with. Glorfindel – send a messenger to Thrandúil; so far he has not turned up here to demand Gil-galad's head on a plate, which might be a sign that he is currently in a good mood; maybe we are lucky. Galadriel – I suggest you muster your army, and send scouts to Tíngel. Aragorn, I entrust you to win Rohan for the alliance. Promise Eómer two crates of Thrandúil's best wine if you must, and get your army battle ready."

Gandalf, who had not spoken a word so far, leant forward.

"I will seek out some friends of great wisdom - now that we know where the ring comes from and with whom it is associated, it will be easier to find information. Maybe there is another copy of the book, maybe somebody has heard a legend of old. One month from now, I shall return, and tell you of my findings."

Everybody nodded, then Aragorn asked: "And who will lead the alliance? Will you do it, my lord Elrond? Or you, Lord Celeborn? Lady Galadriel? Lord Glorfindel?"

Elrond thought about this for a while, then he looked at each of the Elves sitting around the table.

"We have certainly learned from the mistakes of the past, so I suggest a shared command – the High King shall lead us, and King Thrandúil shall lead his own forces. He would never accept anyone else’s authority, and retaining his autonomy, he is more likely to join the alliance."

"Are you serious about this, Elrond?" Gil asked, completely surprised by Elrond's suggestion.

"Yes, I am. None of us, not even Celeborn, has ever commanded an army of this size. You have led us well, Gil-galad. You proved that you were willing to die for each of us. I cannot speak for everybody here, but I will follow you to Mordor and back if need be. This aside," he added, "Celeborn and I are two battle-weary old Elves, and I prefer to leave this task to a young one."

Nobody objected, and Elrond smiled at Gil. The High King visibly grew at least three inches at the prospect of leading an army and going into battle again.

"I will not let you down," he said, and bowed.

"So this is decided then," Elrond said, and gave the sign that the meeting was over.

"Let us get some sleep before the morning dawns, my friends – busy weeks are ahead of us."

With that, he got up, and everybody followed his example, leaving Melpomaen, who collected his scrolls and Celeborn, who tried to swallow the toad of the "old, battle-weary Elf" comment, behind.

"Is - is anything wrong, my lord?" the young advisor asked, when he saw the annoyed expression on Celeborn's face.

The lord looked up, and he relaxed.

"No, everything is in order, Melpomaen - there is the ring, of course, Firinwë teaming up with Námo, and the possible end of Middle-earth, but this aside, everything is in perfect order. I was merely musing over the odd ways of love."

Melpomaen turned brick-red.

"Love, my lord? Why... I do not understand..." he stammered, and dropped his scrolls. Embarrassed, he knelt down to pick them up, and Celeborn grinned. How easy the young one could be confused!

"Many have said that they would follow a loved one to Mordor and back. But Elrond is one of the few who would really do it."

The young advisor looked up to Celeborn.

"Oh, I would do it, too!" he said, and Celeborn smiled.

"Would you? How charming. Now I do not doubt that your young, brave heart feels like this, but I sure hope you would not go to Mordor armed with nothing but a scroll, young one. But your courage does you all honour."

Though it sounded mocking, Melpomaen knew deep down that Celeborn had tried to pay him a compliment, so he allowed himself a small smile and bowed when the lord left the room. His eyes followed the tall Lórien Elf, and he murmured to himself: "I would. I would go to Mordor for you, and carry you back, if I had to."

For a long while, Melpomaen stood where he was, clutching the scrolls to his chest, and little did he know that he had just made a promise that he would have to keep one day.

* * *

Eldanar checked one last time the contents of the small bag he carried – it was actually nothing but one of Orophin's handkerchiefs, bound together by its four corners, but it was sufficient for its purpose. There were two loafs of Lembas, two apples, a Nana Goose book he had been given by Lindir, two hair clasps which had been a present from Elladan, two tunics, a pair of leggings and, of course, Tathar, the loyal toy dragon.

The child walked on tip-toe through the corridors of the Last Homely House, very careful not to be heard. He had waited for hours for the grown-ups finally to retire, and now he was on his way. Where? Eldanar didn't know. He only knew that he did not want to live in Gondor, nice as the King and the Queen might be. He wanted to stay here, but as nobody seemed to want him, he had decided to leave and find a home somewhere else.

His heart was heavy. He had grown to love Orophin and Elladan, and the mere thought of being separated from the two Elves he secretly referred to as his "two adas" turned his stomach. But it couldn't be helped, so Eldanar was sneaking down the stairs now. All he had to do was cross the Great Hall and walk out of the door and then he would be on the road. Before anybody noticed his absence, he intended to be far, far away, never to be found again.

Eldanar stopped dead in his tracks when he saw an Elf standing by the fireplace. Maybe he wouldn't see him? Maybe he could just sneak by? Maybe…

"Young Master Eldanar, would you please come here for a moment?" the Elf addressed him, and beckoned the child to come closer. Eldanar hesitated. The Elf was very beautiful, but also very scary, and he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to follow that call.

"Do not be afraid, child," he said, and Eldanar took a few tentative steps towards the grown-up. When he was within reach, he stopped, clutching to his small bundle.

"I see you have prepared for a great journey," he said, and Eldanar looked down at the toes of his boots.

"You know what your father did when he was confronted with situations he did not like?" the Elf asked, and Eldanar looked up, eyes big like saucers.

"You know my ada?" he whispered, and the stranger nodded.

"Oh yes, yes - we have become good friends, young one."

"What did he do?" Eldanar asked, his plans to leave the Last Homely House forgotten for the moment.

"He faced them. He never ran away, Eldanar. And you should not run away, either."

Eldanar hung his head.

"I am not brave like my ada. He was a great warrior, and he wore shiny armour when he left. I will never wear shiny armour, nobody loves me, and I have very ugly ears."

The Elf knelt down in front of the child, and smiled at him.

"Look at me, Eldanar," he ordered, and the Elfling looked up. Now this was odd - when he first saw the Elf, he thought that his eyes were all black and scary, like the water of the Bruinen in winter, but now he saw they were brown - a deep, warm brown with golden lights, a bit like a polished chestnut, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. He also smelled nice - Eldanar tried to remember what this scent was called, but he couldn't remember. The cook often put it in the mashed taters, this he knew. It was nice. The Elf was nice, Eldanar decided, and he was a friend of his ada, so he would listen.

"Return to your room, Eldanar, and do not cause those who love you grief. Tomorrow, you will leave with the King and the Queen for Gondor, and I promise you that everything will turn out well. Your ada would not want you to run away - he knows you will be a great warrior one day, and much admired by everybody. But to achieve this, you must face your fears."

Eldanar had listened carefully, and though this was a long and difficult speech for a child to understand, he knew that he had to make a decision now, one that would set the direction for his future life. He looked at the door, which had opened miraculously, and then he looked up at the Elf with the friendly brown eyes.

He sighed, then he picked up his bundle and headed for the great stairs, beginning to walk up to his chamber. When he was in the middle of the stairs, he turned around, and when he saw the encouraging smile of the strange Elf, he returned it, even if his own was a weak smile, and waved. Then the darkness of the corridor swallowed him.

* * *

"I am sorry," Orophin said, and hugged Elladan closer. "It is unforgivable how I behaved today. I will apologize in the morrow."

Elladan gently kissed his husband's lips.

"I am sure Aragorn will understand once he knows why you acted the way you did, beloved. He is a very kind man."

He snuggled up closer to Orophin, and was just about to let his hands wander down his husband's body when the door opened and a sad-looking Elfling appeared in the door. The two Elves quickly moved apart, and Orophin asked:

"Eldanar - why are you not in your bed? You should have been asleep for hours already, you have a long journey in front of you."

Eldanar sniffled, then he held up his toy dragon.

"Tathar cannot sleep, 'phin. So I thought... I thought... maybe if he could stay with you tonight, he could fall asleep? So I brought him here..."

Elladan looked at Orophin, Orophin looked at Elladan, and then both looked at the Elfling.

"Who are we to deny a dragon the remedy for his insomnia," Elladan said, and patted the bedcover. "Come up here, little one, and we will see what we can do for Tathar."

Eldanar quickly climbed up the bed, and settled with a happy smile between the two Elves. Orophin reached for a warm blanket and wrapped the child in it, settling him between Elladan and himself.

"Are you warm now?" he asked, and Eldanar nodded.

"Good - so I shall sing Tathar a lullaby which you might like as well," Orophin said, and when Eldanar answered with a blinding smile, he began to sing for the little boy, and soon enough, the child was deeply asleep, his head resting on Elladan's shoulder.

"It worked," Elladan whispered, and kissed Orophin over Eldanar's head.

"Indeed," Orophin replied, and waved at his husband with one of Tathar's wings.

"The dragon has fallen asleep as well."

Elladan grinned.

"As long as he does not snore, he may stay."

* * *

Elrohir tossed and turned in his bed and couldn't fall asleep, no matter how many sheep he counted. Not even mentally recapitulating an especially boring lecture of Master Erestor regarding the mating-rites of the dung beetles in Northern Mirkwood helped, so he finally sat up and stared at the bedcover.

The young Elf was confused, and moreover, disappointed and angry. Angry with himself, basically, for being so naïve and trusting. He should have known – Námo had used him. His plan had probably been to win Elrohir's friendship and trust: Námo saw him as nothing but a reliable source of information on his enemies' plans. What other reason would a Vala have to waste his time with a mere Elf?

"You idiot," Elrohir said to himself, and hit a pillow with such force that a seam split and feathers danced in the air.

"What horrible crime has this innocent pillow committed to earn your wrath, child?" Námo said, and Elrohir spun around, coming face to face with the source of his anger.

"You!" he yelled, and pointed at Námo with his index finger. He would have probably poked the Vala repeatedly in the chest if this hadn't meant imminent death.

"I have no dealings with pillows, so do not blame me," Námo mocked, and Elrohir felt a mad desire to hit him, hard.

"Leave me alone!" Elrohir hissed. "I do not wish to ever see you again! You are evil, a liar, and I will not rest until you have left Middle-earth for good!"

Námo crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his jerkin clung to his body as if alive, a second skin, and despite his anger, Elrohir noticed once again that the Vala left neither a shadow nor an imprint on the bedcover.

"Have you been sitting in the sun too long, young one? Or maybe you ate a fruit which was not ripe yet? Eating green strawberries can cause such a state, you know."

"Go, or I will call for the guards and have you imprisoned!" Elrohir growled, and now Námo was really laughing. Not that Elrohir would have heard it – it was a sound in his mind, making him shiver.

"Elrohir, I would have thought you brighter," Námo said, then he stretched his body and yawned.

Elrohir eyed him with suspicion. "Yes, mock me, I deserve it. I should have seen through you earlier. What a fool I have been! I actually thought that…"

Elrohir broke off, realising what a foolish thing it was to sit here, all alone, arguing about ethics with the Vala of Death, who was planning the end for all of Middle-earth. He was in great danger, and so was Imladris – but what could he do against a Vala?

Námo suddenly had a comb in his hand, and began to run it through his hair.

"You actually thought that I, who could take all of Middle-earth to the Halls of Waiting with a mere touch of my hand if I wished to do so, set up a complicated plan to start a war and befriended you so I could spy on my enemies. A cunning plan, indeed. Child, it seems to me that it is not the pillow whose intellectual abilities should be questioned here. Pray tell, young one – what would I gain from such deeds?"

Elrohir hesitated – indeed, it made no sense. While they had all been busy discussing the "who", none of them had bothered to ask for the "why" – why would Námo go to such lengths? He was the Vala of Death, after all – why start a war? Why not just kill everybody in one go?

Then again, Elrohir was every inch his father's son, and had inherited his stubborn head.

"You forged the Dark Ring, hid it in grand-nana's mirror and hoped that it would ruin Lothlórien, so that you had one realm less to deal with."

Námo continued to comb his hair, looking almost bored by this accusation.

"You know that I, Námo, Vala of Death, Keeper of the Halls of Waiting, have forged a ring? I am most impressed. See, young Elrohir – while your faith in my abilities is flattering - and I have many interests and talents - I am most sorry to state that the forging of jewellery is none of them."

Elrohir hit the bed cover.

"It is true! Do not deny it!"

Námo stopped his occupation and pointed at Elrohir with his comb.

"Quiet now, child. I ask you again: what was written in this book – tell me now."

Elrohir pouted.

"Fine – but I do not see the point. 'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was jealous that others had a Ring of Power, but not him, and he envied Melkor his cunning heart. 'I have been cheated by a female, so doom for Middle-earth shall come from the hand of a female', he said, and he put a spell on the Dark Ring, that its power might only be awoken by the treachery of a female, one worthy in deceit to match his own, and then all Middle-earth would be destroyed, and a new world be created, where he would dwell and rule and be worshipped.' See?"

Námo sighed.

"How melodramatic – I must discuss this with the author. But again – where am I mentioned in this context, child?" he asked, and Elrohir wondered if maybe Námo was going deaf with age.

"Where? 'And so, the Vala of Death forged-" Elrohir began, but Námo cut him off.

"No need to repeat it – it is not great poetry, after all. But I see – you are indeed very young. Now tell me - if you read a message saying that the Prince of the Woodland Elves would come for a visit, whom would you expect?"

Elrohir, slightly confused by this turn of conversation, frowned.

"I cannot see why…"

"Answer," Námo said, and this was an order Elrohir had to obey.

"I would expect to see Legolas," he answered.

"Why?"

"Why? What why?" Elrohir asked, and glared at Námo. "Because Legolas is the Prince of the Woodland Elves, that is why!"

"Is he? But what if the message you read was written in the first age?"

"The first age? Why… well… then I would expect Thrandúil, of course."

Námo nodded.

"Good – I see you are not as dim witted as I began to fear you might be. And now, young one, tell me: why would you expect Thrandúil, and not Legolas?"

Elrohir scratched his head, feeling more and more like Námo was playing a very childish game with him.

"I would expect Thrandúil because he was the Prince of the Woodland Elves in the first age," he answered, and Námo broke out in loud applause.

"Bravo! Bravo! You finally see what this is all about!"

Elrohir shook his head, completely confused now.

"No, I do not!" he cried. "I have no idea what you are talking about! What has Thrandúil to do with this?"

"Use your brain, I am sure there must be one in this pumpkin you have sitting on your neck. Prince of the Woodland Elves or Vala of Death – these are nothing but titles, Elrohir."

Elrohir's eyes got wide, and he began to move away from the Vala. Did Námo mean… surely it couldn't be…?

"Do you mean that…" he began, and Námo nodded.

The whole meaning of this enormous revelation finally sunk in, and Elrohir dropped down on the mattress, his head spinning.

"Yes, this is what I mean to say. If one claims to have talked to the son of Elrond, he might have talked to you, young one. But he might equally have talked to your brother."

* * *

The very moment Glorfindel's head had touched the pillow, he had been asleep. Erestor, however, was wide awake. He first checked on Estorel, but the child was sleeping peacefully, sucking on his thumb and being blissfully unaware of the turmoil Middle-earth was in.

Then the advisor had paced the room up and down, like a wild cat in a cage, and finally, he had settled in a chair beside the bed, watching his husband, for he did not want to wake Glorfindel by tossing and turning.

How peaceful he looked - and how tired. Yes, Glorfindel was tired, and though he never admitted it, Erestor knew very well that old injuries pained Fin greatly at times, and he wished he could do something to help his beloved. Strands of grey mingled with the golden tresses, only noticeable for those who looked for them. Tiny wrinkles around the eyes, a deep line on his neck. The body covered with scars, some of an angry red, other, older ones, of a faint silver. The terrible mark of the Balrog's whip on his back. How often had Erestor seen those scars when they made love, how often had he kissed every single one of them.

Glorfindel was marked by his life - and he was the most beautiful Elf Erestor had ever seen.

He rested his hands on his stomach, calming a little when he felt the soft roundness of it. He stroked the bulge that was his unborn child's bedchamber lovingly, then he sighed.

Erestor was worried. There was something dangerous lurking around the Last Homely House, out for a kill, and he felt a wave of love for Fin flood his heart, and the need to protect him, to keep him safe. For as long as they had known each other, Glorfindel had been the one to look after Erestor, to protect him from harm, and now, somehow, this had changed. While he couldn't put his finger on the reasons for this feeling, Erestor instinctively knew that somebody out there was after Glorfindel, and he swore to himself that he would never allow any harm to come to this wonderful Elf.

The dark-haired advisor leant forward, and pressed a reverent kiss on Glorfindel's lips.

"You sleep," he murmured, "and I will watch."

The baby kicked him, for the first time, and Erestor smiled, stroking his stomach again.

"My apologies, penneth - of course I intended to say that we will watch."

* * *

Elrohir was still lying on his back, and he didn't even look up when Námo settled beside him.

"You look pale – it suits you. Here, drink some water," the Vala said, and offered the young Elf, who was too shaken to wonder where the vessel had come from, a silver cup with fresh water. He propped himself up on one elbow, then took the cup with a trembling hand, and gulped down the cold water.

Elrohir took a deep breath, then he turned to look at Námo.

"I am only an Elf, my lord – and not the wisest, I fear. I do not know if I shall believe you or not, but I am willing to listen. I beg you – tell me the complete story."

Námo considered this request for a moment, then he nodded, and stretched out comfortably on his front, beside Elrohir, his chin resting on his folded hands.

"Very well. We were sixteen of our kind: Manwë and his brother Melkor, Ulmo, Aulë, Oromë, Irmo, Tulkas, Varda, Yavanna, Nienna, Estë, Vairë, Vána, Nessa, my own illustrious person and then there was – my brother, Finwë. We were quite fond of Middle-earth and all who dwelt there, especially the Firstborn. You are of such a refreshing naiveté and silliness, so we decided to keep our protecting hands over you. Mind you, this was not a purely selfless decision, we were also very bored, and you gave us something to do. Among 16 individuals, there are only so many times you can play Tablero before you get bored.

So each of us decided to take over a realm for your benefit. I will not bore you by repeating the History of the Valar, I am sure you are familiar with it. All might have been wonderful, but for the fact that two of us began to feel unhappy with their duties. Melkor was jealous of Manwë, not only because he was the one with all the power, but also because he wanted Varda, Manwë's wife, for himself, and I am sure you know what trouble it can cause when two brothers are interested in the same – mate."

Námo gave Elrohir a knowing look, and the young Elf blushed.

"Please continue," he said quickly, and Námo obliged.

"They argued, daily, and Melkor's heart grew bitter. Where this all led to, you surely know. He left us and wished to ruin all we held dear, but thanks to those most splendid Hobbits and the rest of the Fellowship, his plan failed.

“However, he was not the only one who was unsatisfied. My brother, the Vala of Death, was enjoying his duties too much. He found great pleasure in bringing death and sadness, and his heart delighted in the tears of the Firstborn. When he realized that we did not approve of his behaviour, he tried to take the fëa of all Firstborn to his halls in one strike, but Yavanna found him out, and stopped him. He left us, and took his Dark Ring with him, so only 14 Valar remained. Eight of us had the power to protect and guide you, so one of us had to take over Finwë's tasks. So it was decided that I should take his place."

Elrohir had listened to this tale with increasing confusion.

"Why you?" he asked.

"Because my realm was the only one we could leave to the Firstborn. Your hearts are pure and loving, you did not need my protection."

"What was your realm, my lord?" Elrohir asked, curious now.

Námo didn't answer right away, he rolled on his back and gazed at the beautifully painted ceiling. Elrohir waited, patiently, and finally, the Vala looked at him. For a brief moment, Elrohir thought he had seen sadness in those endless dark pools – but maybe this was his own melancholy rather than Námo's.

"I used to be the Vala of Love, Joy and Fertility, young one."

For a moment, there was silence, and Elrohir tried to form a coherent sentence.

"You… the Vala who gave life became the Vala who takes it? But – that is horrible!" he finally gasped, and Námo shrugged, watching a spider on her way along the headboard of the bed.

Elrohir shivered.

"That is cruel… how could they do this to you? Why did you not object?" he said, and he felt a rather frightening degree of anger with the Valar rise in his heart.

"Necessities are not always pleasant, young one. I am sure this is a lesson you have learned in your life, too," Námo answered.

Elrohir wrapped one of his braids around his finger, something he had used to do as an Elfling when nervous.

"My lord – you once told me that you do not have a heart, in order to treat everybody alike and be impartial. And now you tell me that you once watched over love itself? How is that possible, without a heart?"

Námo still watched the spider on her long journey, and didn't turn to look at Elrohir when he answered.

"I do not have a heart anymore, young one," he finally said, not moving his gaze from the small animal, "for if I had one, it would have broken."

* * *

The day of departure had been a sad one. Eldanar, despite all efforts to put on a brave face, had cried snot and tears, and nothing Arwen or Aragorn said could cheer him up. Orophin and Elladan had felt like crying, too, but held back, for the young one's sake.

All through the journey, Eldanar had hardly spoken a word, refused to eat and cried himself to sleep at night. He sat in the back of the cart and stared in the direction of the Last Homely House, even hours after they had lost sight of Imladris.

On the evening of the fourth day, he guards had set up camp by a small pond, a fire was burning, and everybody sat together for dinner, save Eldanar, who was sitting under a tree, hiding his face behind his toy dragon. Tathar was already so wet that one could have wrung him out, and the child's sadness cut deep into everybody's hearts.

"I don't know, love, maybe this was not such a good idea after all," Aragorn said, and drew on his pipe.

Arwen, who sat beside him and was feeding their youngest daughter, sighed.

"I am not happy to see him like this, either, darling, but eventually, he will see that we can offer him a good life, and I will love him like one of my own children. It takes time - he grew fond of ada and my brother, and of Orophin, too. And we must not forget that he has just learned that his father died. Such a young soul, and already burdened with so much grief - 't is not fair."

Aragorn stroked his wife's hair, and was just about to get up and walk over to the child when a sharp whistle made him reach for his sword.

"What is it?" he asked, and one of the guards said: "A rider - he is coming nearer very quickly."

"An Orc scout? Anybody with him?"

The captain of the guard shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. But just in case - maybe her majesty and the Elflings should withdraw to the back," the captain said, and Arwen got up, hurrying Eldarion to follow her into the forest.

"Eldanar, come with me, please," she said, but the child didn't move.

"Eldanar! Do as Arwen told you!" Aragorn said, and now, finally, Eldanar looked up. Slowly, he got up, and trotted after Arwen and Eldarion into the forest.

Now they could see the rider. He was, indeed, approaching very quickly, but the hooves of his horse made amazingly little noise.

Aragorn smiled.

"Lower your weapons," he ordered, "whoever this might be, he is an Elf, and therefore no danger."

"An Elf?" the captain said, and scratched his head. "How can you tell, my king? He is still far away!"

Aragorn laughed.

"If you cannot hear them, they are either Elves or Hobbits, my friend, and I have yet to see a Hobbit wearing the uniform of a Galadhrim."

Aragorn was right, of course, and when Orophin finally reached the camp, he welcomed him with a hug.

"Do you bring tidings from Lord Elrond?" he asked, but the Galadhrim shook his head, and looked around searchingly.

"No. I am here to -"

Orophin couldn't finish the sentence, because Eldanar shot out of the forest and into his arms, and the tall Elf swung the boy around, then hugged him tightly to his chest.

"'phin! 'phin! Oh, I have missed you so much," the child sobbed, and clung to the Galadhrim like ivy to a tree.

"I have missed you, too, penneth," Orophin whispered, and there was a treacherous tremble in his voice. He turned to Aragorn and Arwen, and bowed.

"I am most sorry. I know that you meant well when you took Eldanar with you, and I am really grateful, but he belongs with us. My apologies, Elladan and I should have made a decision earlier, and Lord Elrond is probably right, we are two idiots, but with your permission, I will now take Eldanar back to Imladris with me."

This was, without a doubt, the longest and most confusing speech Orophin had ever made. His hair, usually so neatly braided, was hanging wild in his face, there was a smudge on his nose, and it was clear to see that anybody who tried to take the child away from him would risk another kin slaying.

Aragorn grinned, and Arwen, who had stepped to his side, wiped away a tear.

"What do you say, young Eldanar - do you wish to live with these two mad Elves?" the king asked, and Eldanar just stared at Orophin.

"I can stay with you?" he whispered, and Orophin nodded, very enthusiastically.

"Yes - but only if you want to. Elladan has already begun to paint your chamber, he is currently drawing duckies on the wall."

"Oh yes, I want to! Very much!" Eldanar sighed, and snuggled happily into Orophin's arms.

"I am your Elfling then, is that right?" the child asked, and Orophin nodded.

"Yes, you are now Elladan's and my Elfling."

"But Haldir is your Elfling, too – will he not be angry with me?" Eldanar asked, a little worried at the prospect of facing a jealous Haldir's wrath. He had secretly planned to marry Miss Bramble one day, but sure Haldir wouldn't allow this anymore now. And what if Rabbit decided to eat him? Eldanar paled.

Orophin laughed, and kissed the child.

"Do not worry, penneth. As long as you will share your dessert with him, Haldir will love you dearly."

Then they both sat down by the fire, Eldanar suddenly finding himself to be very hungry, and while he stuffed as much Lembas and grilled rabbit into his mouth as possible, he again and again tugged on Orophin's braid, as if to make certain that his much-loved 'phin was really there.

Tired from the emotional turmoil of the last days, Eldanar soon curled up in Orophin's arms. He was already half asleep when he saw the strange Elf he had spoken to the previous night, so he didn't wonder why he was here.

"You were right," he murmured and yawned, "everything turned out for the best."

Orophin looked puzzled at the child, but then he saw that Eldanar had already fallen asleep, and did not think about it any longer.

Námo, however, had heard him well.

* * *

Following the king's summons, the 40 members of Thrandúil's council, each of them representing one clan, had assembled in the "Red Hall", which owed its name to the red sand covering its ground. Nothing had changed here since the days of old: the council members sat on stone benches and Thrandúil on a throne of heavy oak, black and hard as stone with age. The torches on the walls flickered, and the whole scene was quite archaic.

Once all had arrived, Thrandúil lifted his hand, and all discussions came to a halt.

"Nobles, lords, brothers. I have received word from Lord Elrond of Imladris and it is bad tidings. A new evil has arisen, all of Middle-earth is in danger, and we are asked to form an allegiance with the other realms against the enemy."

Thrandúil waited for a moment to give his council the opportunity to express their surprise, then he raised his hands again. Erduil, the head of the clan of Northern Mirkwood, stepped forwards.

"My king – I thought the evil lord had been beaten? Who is this enemy? And how do we know Mirkwood is really in danger?"

Thrandúil threw a quick glance at Amaris, who gave him an encouraging smile, then he addressed the council.

"Melkor was not the only Vala who fell out of grace and followed the dark road. There is another one, one we thought to be nothing but a legend, a fairy tale to be told by the fireplace. But the legend is true, and the new Dark Lord has summoned his forces; he is residing in Tíngel forest, ready to lash out at Middle-earth and destroy us."

Erduil shook his head.

"My King – what proof do we have that it is as you say? Only the word of the Half-elf?"

Amaris frowned when he heard the contempt in these words, but chose to keep quiet for the time being.

"We have proof. I would not send out my warriors into war without good reason – or is that what you are trying to imply, lord?" Thrandúil asked, and immediately, the advisor bowed his head.

"Not at all, my King. But please understand – we are worried. With the return of your brother, the question has arisen if you will remain our king at all, or if he will claim the throne. There have been rumours, my king, which have to be addressed. It is said that he wishes to rule, that he wishes to change our ways, and is good friends with the breed of the Half-elves in Imladris. We are worried, my king, that we will become nothing but an appendix to Imladris – and we are surprised about your change of mind."

This was bold speech, and a great discussion began among the council. Thrandúil frowned – yes, it was true, he had always opposed Imladris, and disliked Elrond deeply, but he had also, over the centuries, learned that no realm could survive on its own. From respecting to befriending Elrond, and forming an allegiance with Imladris was a big step. The biggest blow was yet to come, and Thrandúil would need to choose his words carefully. Erduil was a dangerous opponent, one of those who wished to see Mirkwood go back to its old ways, completely cut off from the rest of Middle-earth, as he felt the Elves of Imladris and Lothlórien were weak and had become decadent, and he hated the Half-elves with a passion.

Erduil, a cousin of Thrandúil, had been third in succession to the throne of Mirkwood. His chances of becoming king had been good, with Thrandúil battle weary and Legolas on the quest with little chance of returning. Then Amaris had returned, which was a blow to his high-flying plans, all the more so, since the older brother of the King seemed to be weak and silly, and no follower of the warrior's way. Erduil, to cut the story short, felt that Mirkwood was in need of a new king, and he deemed himself to be just the Elf for this position.

Amaris, who had stood motionless throughout the advisor's speech, lifted his hand, and immediately, all discussion ceased, and the eyes of those present were fixed on him.

"Your expressions of loyalty and affection for my brother are honourable and most touching, lord Erduil – indeed, I was close to tears. However, your concerns are void. I have no intention of becoming head of the clan, nor do I demand kingship. My brother has led our people through all dangers, and he has done well. Only a fool would demand that he leave, and my nana did not raise any fools. As for other Elves’ nanas, I am not so sure. I also have no wish to stay here for a long time; I merely came here to see my family, but I will leave for Valinor as soon as this battle has been won. And won it will be, once our forces are joined. Imladris needs us, and we need Imladris."

Erduil glared at Amaris, and he did not even try to hide his dislike for the other Elf.

"Lord Amaris – with all due respect, you do not know what you are talking about. You have spent these last millennia in the Halls of Waiting, and I will not hold it against you that are out of the loop, so to speak. I suggest you return to writing poems and seducing chamber maids, and leave this kind of decision to those who know about it."

The members of the council, including Thrandúil, held their breath. This was an insult – an open insult to a member of the royal family, and even Legolas, who was far from being a friend of his uncle, automatically reached for his dagger, but Amaris just smiled at him and shook his head.

Erduil, not one to know when to stop, took this as a sign of weakness, and added: "And just so we know the full extent of this plan – who was supposed to lead us into war, my lord? Lord Elrond, armed with a thimble? Or maybe the most fearsome Master Erestor, waving a scroll?"

Some laughed, but then Amaris cut them off.

"Quiet – hear me out. While I do not claim kingship, you still owe me your allegiance. Middle-earth is facing a great evil, and it can only be overcome if we fight united, side by side with Lothlórien and Imladris - and under the lead of the High King."

If a fly had coughed at this moment, one would have heard it, for nobody even dared to breathe after this announcement.

Erduil looked like he had just bitten into a lemon, and began to yell.

"The High King?" he shouted, "How dare you ask this of us! Have you forgotten that he was responsible for the death of so many of our people? I would rather die at the hands of the Dark Lord than fight side by side with this murderer!”

He spat in front of Amaris, and the court gasped at this insult.

Amaris only cocked an eyebrow.

"The only one responsible for the death of our brothers, and I am not happy that I have to admit this, was my father. Oropher did not listen, he wanted things his way, he led them into death for he counted honour in battle higher than life itself. He was a great warrior, but he was not a very wise ruler. The High King saved the lives of many of our brothers, and lost his own life in the process. You wish to die? Well, I shall not be the one to hold you back, Erduil, and I wish you many joyful millennia in the Halls of Waiting – but how about your wife? Your children? Are you willing to sacrifice them as well? Or do you think the Dark Lord will show mercy? If this is what you think, you are a greater fool than I thought. Or maybe you are just a coward."

Erduil turned beet red at this insult, and pulled his dagger.

"Nobody calls me a coward – least of all you, who have been a traitor to your people! Do not think us stupid! Did you really think we would not know what you did during the war? That your only purpose was to warm the High King's bed? And you are trying to tell us whom we have to obey? What you want is to force our people under Gil-galad's reign – do not deny it! Call me a coward again, and I shall cut your treacherous heart out!"

Thrandúil had jumped up, ready to step in and call the upset lord to reason, but Amaris held him back, and nodded at Erduil.

"You challenge me? Very well, it is your right. We shall see whose heart will bleed, Erduil of the Northern Forest."

Amaris took off his tunic, and there were admiring comments heard when the Elves saw the tattoos. Maybe Amaris had been a traitor and Gil-galad's pet, as it was rumoured – but despite his young years, he bore the marks of a great warrior.

"Here," Legolas said, and held out one of his fighting knives to Amaris, who hesitated a moment, then took it. He looked into Legolas eyes, and the prince lifted his chin proudly. "I wish you luck – uncle," he said, and Amaris smiled.

"My thanks, dear nephew. I shall not dishonour your blade."

Then he turned to Erduil, the Elves stepped back, and the two lords began to circle each other.

Erduil was nervous, and sweat beaded his brow. This was not going the way he had planned – he had made a grave mistake in underestimating Amaris. This was neither poet nor scroll shuffler, this was a warrior, and one who obviously knew no fear, for he was still smiling.

"Come here, Erduil… what are you waiting for? Shall we dance around each other all day long?" Amaris mocked, and Erduil leapt forward, aiming for Amaris' chest, but the other Elf moved so quickly that his blade stabbed into the air.

"Not so bad for a beginner… try again," Amaris said, and beckoned Erduil to come closer.

Had he been wiser, he would have ignored Amaris' obvious attempts to make him angry, but Erduil couldn't help it – he WAS angry, very angry, and a red veil began to settle over his mind. He had to win this fight, had to – or he would lose face in front of his people, so he stormed forward again, this time at least managing to apply a long, though not very deep, cut along Amaris' side.

"That was better, but still not much above the abilities of an Elfling," Amaris grinned, completely ignoring his injury, and now he leapt forward, so quickly that Erduil had no time to react, and when Amaris' knife cut into his hip, he howled, but couldn't get a hold of the other Elf.

Erduil stumbled, clinging on to his dagger, and stormed forward again, and again, but not once was he able to hurt or even touch Amaris, who seemed to move with the speed of a Forest Spirit – indeed, it looked like the blond Elf was performing an elegant yet bizarre dance, making the struggling lord from the Northern Forest look even clumsier. Erduil decided that a new tactic was required, so he jumped forward and grabbed for Amaris’ legs, pulling them away from under him and bringing him down. Amaris recovered quickly, and now both Elves were fighting in the dust. Erduil tried to strangle Amaris, but the blond struggled free, then Erduil punched him, hard, and Amaris' lip split. He rolled over and now it was his turn to hit, this time on Erduil's injured hip, which made the lord cry out in pain.

Amaris used this moment of distraction to pin Erduil down underneath him, and before the advisor could make another move, he found himself on his back, feeling the deadly cold of the knife at his throat.

"So then, lord Erduil, chieftain of the Northern Forest, it looks like the king's pet still knows how to bite."

He applied some pressure on the blade, and the tip cut into the soft skin of Erduil's neck, drawing blood. It was a small wound, just superficial, but Amaris felt he had to make a point here. He brought his face very close to Erduil's, and smiled.

"How beautiful you are in your failure, Erduil," he murmured, and smiled. Erduil thought he had never seen a more terrifying thing than this smile, and stared up at the blond Elf, fear in his eyes. Oh how he hated Amaris, how he hated him from the very bottom of his heart, but at the same time, he was very much aware of the strong body which rested heavy on his own, and for the fraction of a moment he felt tempted to lick the blood off Amaris' lips.

The pressure of the blade disappeared, and he saw from the corner of his eye how Amaris threw the hunting knife to Legolas, who caught the blade in mid air, cleaning it on his breeches and putting it back in its scabbard, a proud smile on his face.

Amaris didn't release Erduil, but propped his chin on his hands, folded over the advisor's chest.

"I wish you to pay attention now, Erduil, for I will only say this once. Thrandúil is your king. You will obey him. I am your lord, and you will obey me as well. And you will follow Gil-galad king - to the death if necessary - for this is the only way to save our people. And should you ever reach for the throne again or even so much as look at my brother in any other than the most respectful way, I will snap your neck and feed your carcass to Master Erestor's crows. Have I made myself clear?"

Erduil swallowed hard, then he nodded, faintly, but visibly.

"Good," Amaris said, "I am most delighted to see that decent conversation between noble Elves is still possible these days."

In one fluid motion, he got up and stretched. Grime, blood and sweat were clinging to his body, accentuating every muscle, and his hair clung to his shoulders. He threw his mane back, then picked up his tunic and left the place, his every movement followed by 44 pairs of eyes.

"That," Thrandúil said to Legolas when he was finally able to speak again, "was one of the most remarkable things I have ever seen in my life."

Legolas, still staring after Amaris, nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh yes, Ada – what a fight!"

"I was not talking about the fight," Thrandúil said, "I have seen him fighting before, and I knew it would end so."

Legolas looked at his father, a little confused.

"What was the remarkable thing then, ada?"

"Seeing 40 council members with an erection," Thrandúil answered, and pushed his circlet, which had gone askew, back on his head.

* * *

"This is a very odd scent," Glorfindel said, and sniffed. Celeborn looked up, and sniffed as well.

"You are right – nutmeg, is it not?" he said, and Fin nodded. They had gone for a short walk to discuss some improvements regarding the guards; Celeborn had offered his help, for he felt rather useless sitting around and twiddling his thumbs, and Glorfindel had welcomed the offer. They both had stopped, wondering where the odd scent came from.

Celeborn rubbed his eyes.

"By the Valar – I feel very tired, Glorfindel. Would you mind if we returned to the Last Homely House?"

Fin yawned, and shook his head.

"Not at all – I admit that I feel rather exhausted myself, and I… maybe I should …"

Both Elves swayed, suddenly unsteady on their feet. They felt tired, so very tired, and then Glorfindel dropped on the spot, deeply asleep before his head touched the ground; Celeborn followed immediately, hitting his head hard on a stone, but feeling nothing, because he, too, was already asleep.

The men crawled out from under the bushes and behind the trees, and sneered.

"Ha! Great stuff, worked like a charm! Now, bind and gag them, and make sure they're not hurt more than necessary, or the lord will have yer heads," the captain of the mercenaries said, and his minions quickly bound Celeborn and Glorfindel and dragged them to a cart which had been hidden behind some bushes.

* * *

Erestor dropped the scroll he had been reading in - something terrible had just happened, he knew it. Fear touched his heart, cold and hurtful, and he ran out of the room, down the stairs, repeating Glorfindel's name again and again, as if the mere mention of the beloved name could keep his husband from harm.

But deep down in his heart, Erestor knew that he would be too late.

* * *

Elrohir, who was looking for his grand-father, had found two sentries sound asleep under a tree, and no matter how hard he shook them, they wouldn't wake up. This was very odd, so he had already turned to fetch his father when he heard the voices of men.

Unusual – for sure, men were often guests in Imladris, but this was a language he had not heard here in a long time.

"What business do men from Breon have in Imladris? And why did I not know that they were here in the first place?" he wondered, signalling his horse to stay behind and drawing his sword as a precaution, then walking slowly towards the noise.

When he saw that the men were trying to load the two unconscious Elven lords on the cart, he shouted at them: "Stop this immediately! Who are you? What are you doing here? Leave them alone, now!"

The men did not answer, but attacked him immediately; while Elrohir was a great warrior, they outnumbered him by far, especially as no guards answered his desperate calls for help, and when a strong scent of nutmeg wafted through the air, he suddenly felt very tired, and found it difficult to keep hold of his sword.

Elrohir felt a blade slice his back open, but oddly enough, it didn't hurt. He just felt tired, and cold. The young Elf closed his eyes, wishing nothing more than to sleep, while the blows rained down on him and his blood stained the grass.

"Follow me, child," he suddenly heard a well-known voice, and with the last energy he could muster, Elrohir opened his eyes.

It was Námo. Of course it was him, who else? His voice was not mocking, not teasing, just calm and – comforting? A blow to his head sent Elrohir spinning, and he heard a bone break, but all he was aware of was the Vala of Death, crouching in front of him, head cocked and studying him as a child might study a butterfly resting on a flower.

Elrohir made the most important choice of his life: to die or not to die? Trust Námo to take his soul to the Halls of Waiting, or risk wandering in darkness for all eternity? Was Námo good or evil? Or, as he had once explained, neutral? Elrohir tried to see any trace of emotion in the dark liquid that were Námo's eyes, but there was nothing.

"Come to me, Elrohir," Námo said, and opened his arms. Maybe it was the way he said his name, or an inner voice, but when another blade buried itself in his leg, Elrohir reached out to touch Námo, and the Vala smiled, taking him in his arms.

"That one's done, cap'n," a red-haired man said, and pulled his sword out of Elrohir's leg.

"Aye – let's go before his friends come along," the captain said, kicking the body of the Elf one last time, and then they hurried to the rest of their troop, who had already thrown the bound and gagged Elven lords on the cart and were eager to leave this place. Both Glorfindel and Celeborn were still unconscious, which had spared them from witnessing how Elrohir was about to get murdered.

The mercenary with the red hair looked down at the lifeless body of the Elf, and raised his sword for the final blow.

"Just to make sure you'll not get up and cause trouble, pretty one," he grinned, but before he could bury the steel of his sword in Elrohir's body, something touched him – it felt like his heart was being squeezed by an icy hand, a coldness spread all through his body, and he fell to the ground, very dead, before he could finish his task.

The captain turned around, saw his companion fall, but did not return to see if he was still alive – one life didn't count. The only thing of importance was to fulfil the order, for if he failed, his life would be forfeit. So he quickly ran into the forest, and while the mercenaries took their victims away from Rivendell and headed for their hide-out, protected by evil magic and unnoticed by the sentries, the birds ceased their singing.

* * *

Velvet? No. Silk? Neither. Silky velvet? Elrohir couldn't tell, but whatever it was, it felt incredibly good against his skin, so he rubbed his cheek on the soft fabric, like a cat who wished to be petted. He was warm, he was comfortable, and he had never felt this good before. There was a distinct scent in the air, a bit like nutmeg, a bit like leather, and somebody was holding him, and as Elrohir was a curious Elf, alive or dead, he opened his eyes to see where he was and who was holding him.

He was nowhere. Right in the middle of nothing. Imagining 'nothing' was an impossible task, and he and Elladan had often tried to imagine the unimaginable that was eternity, the big nothingness, and now he was here. This was too much for him to understand, so he focused his gaze on the one who was holding him.

It was Námo, and the fabric which felt so good on Elrohir's skin was his black jerkin. It was suede, as Elrohir could now see, and he wondered first what animal could provide a skin this soft, then he told himself that this was not exactly the kind of thing one should muse over when realizing that one was dead.

Námo wore hunter's gear, all in black, and his black hair seemed to have a life of its own, cascading over his shoulders like the black water of the Bruinen. Elrohir lifted his hand, and touched one of the braids with the silver clasps. The braid seemed to move, but it was silky to his touch, and Elrohir ran his fingers over it. A strand of black hair gently wrapped itself around his hand and caressed his wrist. He studied the clasp, which was made of silver, or so he thought, and showed a skull. How tasteful, Elrohir thought, I fear to see what his throne is made of.

"So you have finally awoken," Námo said, and for the first time, Elrohir could really hear his voice, with his ears, not only with his mind, and he decided he liked this voice. Namó spoke with an accent, but which one, Elrohir couldn't tell; it was familiar, though. He looked up, and closed his eyes again, for looking into Námo's eyes was like looking beyond eternity, and Elrohir could not bear it.

"Look at me, Elrohir," Námo ordered, but Elrohir refused to obey, so terrifying had that first look been. He buried his face in Námo's chest, and shook his head.

"I cannot, my lord – it would be my death to see eternity", he whispered, and to his great surprise, he felt a chuckle trembling through Námo's chest.

"You are refreshingly illogical, young one. How can it be your death when you are already dead?"

Dead. Of course. He was dead. He had completely forgotten about this.

Elrohir looked up, and dared another glance at Námo's face.

"You are beautiful," he said, and reached out to touch the face of the Vala.

"So I have been told," Námo confirmed, "a pleasant face makes my work easier, young one. You Elves with your fascination for beauty are more likely to follow a straight nose and flawless skin than a cave troll with festering pustules."

This, Elrohir thought, was a decidedly odd conversation to have with a Vala, but then again, when had conversations with Námo not been odd.

"You are very fair, Elrohir – more than I thought. I only see you as shadows when I come to call on you, you and your kin. You are like a summer breeze, or the scent of a flower – beautiful, but gone before one can fully appreciate your presence."

He bent down, coming eye to eye with Elrohir, and the young Elf shivered when he saw the red flames dancing in the Vala's eyes.

"So you see, fair Elrohir – I knew I would get you in the end. All good things come to those who wait."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

"So you see, fair Elrohir – I knew I would get you in the end. All good things come to those who wait."

If Elrohir's heart had still been beating, it would have stopped now. So he had been right - Námo had tricked him. Elrohir thought of his family, his friends - he knew they would be heartbroken over his death, and that this could have been avoided if only he hadn't been so naïve as to trust the Vala.

Elrohir felt the need to hit his head against a hard surface, but as Námo still held him close, this was not possible.

The Vala sighed.

"Ah yes, very fair indeed. What a pity that I will not be able to keep you."

"What?"

Elrohir blinked, and Námo shrugged.

"Yes, I know. It is terribly upsetting for you to hear this; without a doubt, you would prefer to stay here, but alas - you must return."

"Return?"

Námo cocked an eyebrow.

"I would welcome it, child, if you could stop echoing my words like a parrot. Of course you have to return, your time has not yet come. You have many boring millennia ahead of you, which is regrettable, but cannot be changed."

"But I thought..." Elrohir began, only to be silenced by Námo, who looked rather stern.

"You think much too often, young one. If Elves spent more time dreaming and less thinking, they would be merrier and less annoying. And now sleep."

Sleep was, of course, the last thing on Elrohir's mind, but his lids felt like lead all of a sudden, and dropped closed automatically.

Námo looked down at the unconscious Elf, and frowned at the sight of the blood-matted hair and the deep gash in his back. He saw many Elves running towards them, Erestor ahead of them all, his black robes and hair flying, closely followed by Elrond and Elladan. Any second they would be here, taking care of the young Elf and making sure he would heal.

And as healing was none of his business and Námo felt he had been generous enough for one day, he returned to the Halls of Waiting.

* * *

Erestor and Elrond arrived almost simultaneously at the spot where Elrohir lay in the grass, and the sight of the limp, lifeless figure in the puddle of blood was like a punch in their stomachs. After the initial shock, however, Elrond mustered all his strength and calm, for he was a healer – there would be time for tears later, now he had to look after his son.

He crouched down beside Elrohir and felt his pulse. A sigh of relief escaped him.

"Thank the Valar, he is alive," he said to Erestor, who had paled visibly, and his dark eyes scanned the surrounding for traces of his husband. But there were none - safe the badly hurt Elrohir and a dead mortal. Erestor knew that something bad had happened. He could only hope that Elrohir would be able to tell him what.

"How serious are his injuries?" the advisor asked, kneeling down beside Elrohir.

Elrond didn't answer, he only ordered the guards to get a stretcher. It was true, Elrohir was still alive – but would he pull through? His back was sliced open, a deep wound on his hip was bleeding heavily, and all colour had drained from his face.

There was fear in Elrond's heart, and an ever-growing anger. Anger and hate towards the one responsible for this crime. Elladan and Erestor helped him to lift Elrohir onto the stretcher, face down to avoid causing further damage by moving him around too much, then they slowly carried their precious burden back to the Healing House.

Orophin stayed behind with Haldir and Mela, and they looked at the dead mortal.

"A mercenary - or what do you think?" Mela said, and Orophin shrugged.

"I cannot tell - let us see if he carries anything with him that might tell us where he comes from. Judging from his clothes, he looks more like a hunter, but this can be deceptive."

He knelt down beside the man and began to search through his pockets. He found a hunting knife, some tobacco, a fishing line, two hooks and a silver coin.

Orophin frowned as he got up, examining the coin carefully. For quite a while, he just stared at the picture embossed on one side, till Mela's curiosity got the better of him: "Have you found anything? Is there anything special about this coin?"

Orophin didn't answer, but he knew the coin all too well, and his fist closed so tightly over the tiny piece of silver that the reeding dug painfully into his flesh.

~~~ Flashback Orophin ~~~

They had been four, and they huddled together like young sparrows in a nest - not only to keep warm, but also to find some comfort. Men, hundreds of them, and women, also some children. They looked strange, frightening, and none of the four Elflings understood their language. Sometimes they laughed, loud and rough, and many stared at the Elflings, pointing with their fingers.

Only a week ago, Orophin and his friends had played in the forest, laughed with their parents, climbed trees and tried to catch fish in the pond close to the small settlement they had lived in. Then, between one moment and the next, everything had changed. There had been screams and fire, and men with swords and knives. Orophin couldn't really remember what happened, but he knew that he and his friends were caught when they tried to climb the trees to hide. The men had followed them, chasing them on horseback. One had hit him, then bound his hands together and thrown him over the front of the saddle like a sack.

The journey had taken two days, and neither Orophin nor his friends had been given anything to eat. He later learned that this was a common method among slavers to keep the merchandise weak and calm.

And now they were here, tied together like slaughtered chickens in a butchery, and while neither Orophin nor his friends understood the language the men were speaking, they knew very well that this was a market, and that they were about to be sold. The seller was a tall, serious man with a neatly cut beard - Orophin had never seen a mortal before, and he thought it was very odd to have facial hair, but he knew better than to inquire about it. The seller had given the slavers a handful of coins, then he called for some servants, and the four Elflings were put in a tub with warm water and scrubbed clean. Food had been served, and over all, they had been treated well, but Orophin had a suspicion that this was only to keep them in good condition and fetch a higher price.

While still very young, Orophin had always listened to the tales told by the fire, and he knew what slavers were and what was about to happen to him and his friends. He decided that the wisest thing would be to play along and use the first opportunity to run away.

The seller was in deep discussion with two men now. One wore robes which looked expensive, with lots of gold trimmings, and he wore plenty of jewellery. Orophin thought the cut of the garments was very unflattering - not at all like the simple, elegant robes of the noble Elves he had seen.

The other man wore plain clothes; his hands were large and dirty, and reddish stubble covered his face. The seller occasionally pointed at the Elves, sometimes smiling, sometimes looking angry, and Orophin knew that they were negotiating.

"My lord", Melnor the Merchant said, bowing respectfully in front of the Lord Chancellor, "I really cannot lower the price any more. Just look at him - he is perfect! It's easy to find dark haired Elves, they come twelve a dozen, but a fine silver haired one like him - that's a rare find! My men caught him two days from here, at great risk to themselves!"

The Lord Chancellor shook his head.

"We all have to take risks in our business, Melnor, that is the way it works. Agreed, the Elf is nice to look at, but much too young. We told Him that we need an adult, He knows how long it takes for them to grow-up! We have no intention of waiting another forty years until this one can warm our bed. Doesn't He have any other Elves on offer?"

Melnor bowed again, and sighed, his face full of regret.

"Unfortunately not, my lord - they become increasingly difficult to catch. But are you sure you will not change your mind?"

He stepped over to Orophin and grabbed the Elfling by the arm, dragging him in front of the two men.

"Just look at the hair," he said, running his long fingers through Orophin's mane. "And the eyes - have you ever seen such interesting colouring? Everybody has blue-eyed Elves, my lord - but this - your household would be the envy of every member of the city council."

The Lord Chancellor looked Orophin up and down, nodding.

"Indeed - he is very special. And tall for his age..."

He reached out to grip the Elfling's chin, and turned Orophin's face from left to right and back several times. Melnor, who knew when a good deal could be made, continued to praise his merchandise.

"Do not forget to look at the ears, my lord – you will hardly find another one with such elegant points."

Orophin didn't like the odd glimmer which had appeared in the man's eyes all of a sudden. Before Melnor could step in, the Elfling bit the chubby hand which held his chin, hard, and the Lord Chancellor yelped, drawing his hand back as if he had been bitten by a snake.

"By the great goddess, Melnor! Does He not tame them before He sells them? Now He may look at this!" the Lord Chancellor screamed, and held his hand under the seller's nose, giving him the opportunity to admire the perfect imprints of Orophin's teeth on the back of his hand.

"My apologies, my lord - I had no idea he was wild still. Be assured that I will punish him for this - or maybe you would prefer to do this yourself?" Melnor asked, a sly smile behind his apologies.

The Lord Chancellor considered the matter for a moment - oh, punishing this one would be very rewarding, breaking the will of the proud ones always was. Then his eyes wandered from Orophin to the teeth marks on his hand, which were beginning to hurt.

"We do not wish to have a wild animal in our house, Melnor. He shall see if he finds a buyer for this one, but we would advise him to have it put down, as he can never know if it might kill a decent citizen in his sleep one day."

With that, the lord turned on his heels and rushed away, followed by his entourage.

Melnor turned around, and slapped Orophin hard across the face.

"Don't you ever try that again, you little bastard, or I'll pull you teeth out," he hissed, and Orophin covered his face, shocked by the rough treatment, because nobody had ever raised a hand to him.

"It looks like this is going to be a hard one to sell, Melnor," said the other man, who had watched the events with a stern face, and Melnor sighed.

"Indeed - beautiful they are, but difficult to tame. Well, there is nothing a whip and a chain couldn't improve, Master Blacksmith. How about you? Would you care to give it a try?"

The smith shook his head.

"I just got married, Melnor, and I do not care for males. And not for ones as young as him, anyway. My wife would sing me a scary song if I were to bring him home! I'm afraid you will have to find another buyer."

Melnor, who was not keen to have to feed the biting Elfling any longer than necessary, didn't give up.

"Well, you could use him for other things if his appearance doesn't please you, Master Smith. Look - he is tall for his age, and his shoulders are broad. I'm sure he will be strong, and weren't you talking about finding somebody to help in the smithy? Think about it - he will live for many years and will do a lot of work, and if he burns his fingers, they will heal quickly. Sure, you will have to chain him up so he won't run away, but if the chain is long enough, it shouldn't get in the way. Just think about it - you could take up more orders and make a lot of money!"

The smith considered Melnor's words - there was some truth in them. He had indeed been looking for somebody to help around the smithy, but a smith's work was not one many chose, for it was hard and dirty. It was true - the young Elf looked strong, and in five, six years, he would be strong enough to do all the hard work he did himself.

"What price do you ask for him, Melnor?" he finally said, and Melnor's eyes lit up.

"Oh, you know how expensive the silver ones usually are, Master Smith, but for you, I will make a special price - 20 gold coins."

The smith laughed out loud.

"What? You want me to pay you 20 gold coins for a skinny Elf who bites? Now please - do you think me a fool? 5 gold coins, not one more!"

The discussion went to and from, and finally, they settled for a price of 11 gold coins, which ensured Melnor a small profit out of this deal. The smith was happy, too, because 11 gold coins was a bargain for a real Elf.

He opened his purse and counted coin after coin into Melnor's hand.

"Thank you, Master Smith - please regard this low price as a belated wedding present for your lovely wife."

Orophin had watched the transaction, and stared at the coins piled up on the seller's hands. They were golden, and sparkled in the sun. An eagle was embossed on one side, the same eagle the slavers had burnt into his hip the day they had caught him.

The smith took the end of the rope that bound Orophin's hands together, and pulled on it.

"Come, you," he said, and Orophin, knowing very well that there was no escape right now, turned around one last time to look at his friends, who stared at him with big eyes. Then he trotted after the man, down the dusty street into an unknown future.

\--- End Flashback ---

"Orophin? Ada? Is anything wrong?" Haldir asked, for the empty expression on Orophin's face was beginning to scare him.

"What? Oh, no, no, it is nothing," Orophin said, startled and looking like he had just woken up from an unpleasant dream. He opened his fist and stared down at the coin, his eyes darkening at the sight of the embossed eagle. He held it up in front of Mela's eyes.

"Breon," he said. "This man is from Breon."

"Breon?" Mela gasped, "Are you sure?"

Orophin nodded.

"So they have taken Glorfindel? By the Valar - what do you think will they do to him? Kill him?"

Orophin shook his head, and put the coin carefully away in one of his pockets.

"No, Haldir. No, I am afraid they will not."

With that, he began to walk towards the Last Homely House, leaving three very worried Elves behind.

* * *

"You enjoyed that immensely, did you not?" Thrandúil asked upon entering his brother's chamber. Amaris didn't answer - he stood in front of the mirror, cleaning the wound he had received in the fight with Erduil, a bowl of hot water placed on a chair nearby.  
"Enjoyed what, my dear brother?" he asked, wiping the last bit of blood from his skin.

"Humiliating Erduil," Thrandúil answered, and stepped closer. He took the piece of cloth out of Amaris' hand, and dipped it in the water. "Let me do this."

Amaris said nothing, but let his brother tend to his wound. After a while, he snickered.

"Do not tell me, Thrandúil, that you did not enjoy seeing your biggest opponent writhing in the dust like a snake," he said, and when the King of Mirkwood looked up, he could see a smug grin on his brother's face.

"As a matter of fact - no, I did not. But you did."

Amaris rolled his eyes, then he hissed when Thrandúil touched the wound Erduil's knife had cut in his side.

"Of course I did. I like to win. I hate to lose."

Thrandúil shook his head.

"One day your boundless ambition will be your death, Amaris. You are a good Elf, and my brother, and I love you dearly, but not everyone will bow to your wishes all the time. All of Mirkwood used to be at your beck and call, Amaris - it did not do you good."

Amaris turned around, and Thrandúil dropped his arm. His brother threw his head back, sending his loose hair flying. He looked like an archaic, wild being - a heathen deity of old times, but he was not a gentle god, oh no - he was demanding and without mercy, and nothing could withstand his all-consuming passion.

"I do not play with the feelings of others any more, if that is what you fear, Thrandúil. No more promises of endless love. I did learn my lesson. Nothing will keep you in the Halls of Mandos longer than hearts you have broken. If it had not been for the High King, I would probably still be sitting by the fire and playing cards with Námo."

Thrandúil cocked an eyebrow.

"The High King - of course. Say, Amaris - how did you master him? How did you make him submit to your wishes? Was it your beauty? Your wit? Your charm? Or your courage?"

A dark shadow fell on Amaris' face.

"The High King is none of your business, Thrandúil," he snapped, tearing the cloth out of his brother's hands.

"Is he not? You expect me to go to war under his command - and dare to tell me that he is none of my business? Oh, but he is, Amaris. So tell me - did you make him crawl in the dust like all the others? Will it really be him who leads the armies - or will he be a marionette, dancing when you pull the strings?"

Amaris knocked the bowl off the chair with a swift gesture, sending it crashing against the wall, the shards flying everywhere.

"He did not crawl! Gil-galad would never crawl! How dare you speak of him in such a way!" he snarled, glaring at his brother.

Thrandúil was shocked for a moment, then the pieces of this puzzle fell into place. He stepped closer to Amaris, so close that he could smell his brother's anger.

"So this is the big secret - he did not want you, is that it? Amaris the great and irresistible - rejected by Gil-galad. Were you the one crawling then, Amaris? Begging for his love and being laughed off? Tell me, what was it like to be on the receiving end of such treatment for a change?"

Amaris didn't answer, but his anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. He closed his eyes and prayed to every Vala but Námo that he would not cry now in front of his brother. But Thrandúil had good eyes, and he saw what was going on. He reached out to stroke Amaris' cheek.

"I am sorry, Amaris - please forgive me. Those were cruel words, and I should not have spoken them."

Amaris shook his head.

"No, do not apologize. I suppose I deserve this. I guess that this is my punishment for all the pain I caused in my first life - that I should be the one whose heart is broken."

He sank into the chair, and raked his hair with his fingers.

"Two ages, Thrandúil - two ages I spent by his side, day after day, without hope, and in the knowledge that I would probably have to endure it for thousands of years more. Seeing him, but not being allowed to touch him, so close and yet we could not have been separated any further. No hope for closeness, with Elrond's shadow always between us. I do indeed think that I have done penance enough for my sins."

Thrandúil didn't comment on this, he just shook his head.

Amaris got up, and went over to a small side table. He uncorked a bottle of Shire Brandy and poured some of the liquid over his wound. The blond Elf hissed at the sting, but this was the easiest way to disinfect the wound, and a less smelly one than using the antiseptic ointment the healer had brought, which stank like twenty unwashed Orcs.

"Enough of this - I am tired. If you do not mind, I would like to get some sleep, the fight was exhausting," Amaris said, without looking up. The King didn't answer, but he got up and walked towards the door. He had his hand on the handle when he turned around.

"Amaris - if you need me, you know where you can find me. We all have our battles to fight, not all of them on the field of war, and not always can we win them alone."

Amaris looked up, studying his younger brother, then he smiled. Thrandúil nodded, and left, the door closing softly behind him.

* * *

Something wet and cold touched his forehead, and Glorfindel sighed - what bliss. He had a splitting headache, as if somebody was poking around in his brain with a needle, just behind his eyes, and the cool cloth which was pressed to his brow refreshed and calmed.

"My poor darling - have you finally awoken?" a sweet voice said, and when Fin finally decided that he could open his eyes without the danger of them exploding as soon as exposed to daylight, he saw a stunningly beautiful Elf sitting by his bed, her face full of concern.

"Awoken?" he murmured, and tried to wet his dry lips. He greedily accepted the glass with fresh, cold water the lady gave him. She supported his head and helped him to lean forward, and after a few delicious gulps, he sank down into the soft, warm pillow.

"Oh, you have slept for almost two days, beloved," the lady said, wiping a tear from her beautiful eyes. Fin felt pity for her, but still he frowned.

"What happened?" he asked, and tried to sit up, but she gently pressed him back into the cushions.

"You were attacked, beloved - scouts from Imladris, again. Ai, if only the Valar would free us of their presence!" she sighed, and shook her head sadly.

"What is Imladris?" Glorfindel asked, closing his eyes again, for his head was spinning and he felt nauseated.

"Imladris? But - beloved. They are our worst enemies! Just look what they did to you!" she said, and Fin began to be frightened. Yes, "Imladris" sounded familiar - but what was the meaning of this word? And who was this lady? Why did she call him "beloved"? And, even more importantly, who was he in the first place? If only his head would stop hurting - the pain made it difficult to think.

Glorfindel pressed the bridge of his nose. "My lady," he said, and swallowed hard, "my apologies, but I do not understand anything of what you tell me. I must have - my head hurts, I cannot think properly, or remember anything. Who are you? Where am I? And.... who am I?"

She stared at him, blue eyes wide with surprise.

"But... beloved... how can that be?" Then she began to sob, pressing a tiny piece of finest white silk to her eyes.

"Ai, Elbereth - that I have lived to know such pain!" she sniffed. "That I should live to see the day when you, my beloved husband of two ages, forget my name!"

With that, she buried her face in her hands, tears running down her wrists, and her narrow shoulders shook. Glorfindel felt dreadful - not only because a company of Orcs seemed to be dancing a polka in his head, but also because the obvious distress of the beautiful lady cut deep into his heart.

"My lady... I beg you... do not cry, I cannot bear to see you in distress. But pray tell - what is your name?"

She sniffed, and looked up, teardrops clinging to her long eyelashes, her under lip quivering.

"I am Firinwë, you bonded wife, and you are Glorfindel of Tíngel, my beloved husband. Do you really not remember?"

Firinwë... Glorfindel... yes, the names sounded familiar, though he would never have connected them in any way with his own person. Oh, he must surely have received a heavy blow on the head which had damaged his memory! How horrible - and how hurtful to see his wife suffer in such a way.

Fin reached out to cover the small, long-fingered hand of Firinwë with his own.

"Please do not cry - I cannot see you suffer."

The blonde lady produced a weak smile, then she leant forward and pressed a soft and loving kiss on Glorfindel's lips. The warrior looked at her in surprise, and she blushed in a very charming way.

"Did that help you to remember?" she asked, and gave him a decidedly cheeky smile.

Ah, now this was a game he knew how to play - even if he couldn't remember ever having played it. But flirting was something Glorfindel had in his blood, whether he knew who he was or not.

"Maybe," he said, returning the smile. "But just to be sure, we should try it again..."

He broke off, reached out and placed his hand on her neck, drawing her closer. Their lips met again; this time, she opened her lips, and when his tongue began to dance around hers, Glorfindel thought, indeed, that he remembered having kissed her before.

"Hm," he purred, with his face buried in her neck, taking a deep breath of her scent - nutmeg, he noticed. "This certainly is a big help, dear wife. I am sure my memory loss is only temporary."

"But of course, beloved," she said, stroking his back.

"I will remember everything in no time, you will see," he murmured, and fell asleep on her shoulder.

Firinwë continued to stroke his back, playing with a strand of blond hair as she did so.

"That is what you think, you fool," she murmured.

* * *

At the same time, another Elf was waking up, alas not in a luxurious chamber but in a dungeon, many floors below the room where Glorfindel was trying to remember when in Elbereth's name he had married Firinwë. The palace, which was hewn in the stone of Dark Mountain, had many dungeons, and possibly not even the Valar knew how many victims they held.

This particular victim had a splitting headache and was in a foul mood. When Celeborn woke up, at first he stayed where he was, spread out on straw on a cold stone floor. It took him only seconds to realize that he was not in Rivendell anymore, and he remembered how they had been attacked. Glorfindel - he had been with him. Where was he?

Celeborn sat up, and looked around. His eyes widened when he saw the black-haired Elf who sat on the plank-bed which was fixed to the opposite wall. For a brief moment, he thought he was looking at Námo, but he soon realized that this was not the case, though this Elf bore a rather significant likeness to the Vala of Death whom he had cheated for his friends.

"I see you have awoken, child," the Elf said, and waited for the full attention of the scruffy-looking Elven lord.

"Who are you?" Celeborn demanded to know, as he eyed the other suspiciously. It was not difficult to tell that this was the enemy, and he had to learn as much as he could about him. An enemy you knew was only half as dangerous.

"Before I reveal myself, I have to ask: who are you?" the strange Elf asked, and Celeborn shook his head, an action he immediately regretted.

"What kind of question is that - I am Celeborn of Doriath, as if you did not know this," he grumbled, and the Elf sighed.

"Oh dear - I was afraid that was what you would say. You are strong, more so than I thought. Stronger even than my spells - I wonder how Lothlórien manages without your power, Celeborn. Ah - I shall find out - it will be amusing to see your cry for his life."

"I have answered your question, now you answer mine," Celeborn demanded, pointedly ignoring the Elf's remark.

The Elf got up, and made a theatrical bow in direction of the Elven lord.

"I am Finwë, child."

"Finwë?" Celeborn asked, and cocked an eyebrow. "There was only one Finwë, my wife's grand-ada, and he certainly did not lock up Elves in dungeons. Well. None that did not deserve it," he added, as he was not quite sure about grand-ada Finwë's deeds. His wife had always been rather tight-lipped about her family, and who could blame her.

"There you are right - I am absolutely unique. But we are wasting time with idle chatter about our family, Celeborn. I could snap your neck now and be rid of your annoying presence, but unfortunately I have promised my grand-daughter not to damage even a hair on your head in case my spell should not work."

Celeborn thought frantically about a way to escape, but he could hear the guards beyond the heavy door, and Finwë - be he now really Galadriel's grand-ada or not - did not look like an Elf who would take kindly to an attack. So he decided it was better to keep him talking and gain some time.

"Do I know your grand-daughter? And what is it that you want from me, anyway?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, and looking, despite the grime and a bleeding head-wound, every inch a lord. He would not show this Elf his fear - oh no. He was terrified, but he would hide it. It was his only chance of survival.

Finwë made a vague gesture with his hands. "Oh why do those who face death at the hands of their captors always expect their enemies to hear their life stories? But so be it - at least you will know who it was that sealed your doom."

He stretched his lean body, yawning, and, after thinking about the whole matter for a moment, he turned to Celeborn again.

"I am a Vala - or at least I was one until that rotten Manwë condemned me to live here. Many ages ago, I lived among the firstborn, even took one of them for my queen and fathered her children. A most amusing pass-time, I must add. The Valar do not know what they are missing.

“Well, as was expected of me, I was wise, good and much loved by my people. But then I had rather an unpleasant run-in with Melkor. You see - I have a weakness for fine jewellery, and unfortunately, so has he. He demanded that I give him the Silmarils, I refused, so he knocked me over the head with an axe. This is not the correct way to settle disputes, but he obviously had a lot of fun.

“So I realized that being wise and good was boring and not what I wanted; when I was invited to become the Vala of Death, I accepted with great pleasure. Ah - those were the days... no battlefield I missed, no kin slaying without my presence! I can truthfully say that I took my duties very seriously, but of course my fellow spirits had to ruin the fun for me again. There is no need for details, but my half-witted little brother Námo is now in charge of the Halls of Mandos, while I am condemned to sit here, in this stinking part of Middle-earth, and you will not be surprised to hear that I am most displeased with this situation."

Celeborn had listened to Finwë's speech with increasing confusion. Surely this was a bad dream and he would wake up any second. Or it was not and he was trapped here with a Vala who had obviously lost his mind. Splendid. Wonderful. Just the thing he needed, how nice.

"And what has all this to do with me?" Celeborn asked. Finwë rolled his eyes.

"Good grief, child - do you really have your head for the sole purpose of keeping your braids in place? Think! I am bored! I am tired of Middle-earth! I want to return to the Halls of Mandos! So I will bring all of Middle-earth under my command, and then my fellow Valar will have to negotiate.”

"And what about the ring?" Celeborn asked, slowly understanding the enormity of the danger they all were in.

"The ring? Ah - I made it when I was still Lord of the Halls. You see - I could not go without a ring if everybody else had one. Even the Dwarves had Rings of Power! So it was nothing but right that I got myself one, too. I placed it in the mirror in the hope that the lovely Galadriel would fall under its spell. Unfortunately, she did not - but I am proud to say that I have found a worthy ring bearer in my grand daughter Firinwë."

"Firinwë?" Celeborn howled. "Did you say Firinwë? I knew it! Where is this treacherous female so I can strangle her!"

"Ah, ah - watch your words, Elf. After all, you owe her your life. She hoped you could become an entertaining toy for her, but alas - the spell did not work. And I suppose she will have more fun with the Balrog-slayer, anyway. As for you, Celeborn of Doriath - your part in this story is now over, and it is time to remove you from the stage."

Celeborn wanted to say something, but a darkness fell over his mind. He felt the touch of cold hands, caressing his ears, felt cold lips kissing his eyes and finally his mouth. Panic threatened to overcome him when he realized that he could not see, hear or speak, and he began to stumble around in the darkness, hands reaching out so as not to bump into anything.

"And so comes the great Celeborn of Doriath to an end," a mocking voice in his mind said, "the great Lord is now a deaf, blind and mute fool - and are you not delighting in the knowledge that you will be able to enjoy this state for all eternity? Ah yes - immortality does have its favours..."

Celeborn screamed, but no sound left his lips, and something gave in him, letting him fall into merciful darkness.

* * *

Erestor paced his room like a caged animal. Again and again, he tried to open the door, but to no avail, and he growled in frustration.

Glorfindel was out there, in danger, and they had the nerve to keep him locked up here like some silly maiden, refusing him his right to go after his mate. Elrond had ordered him to stay here, as if he was a servant or a chamber maid – yes, he owed Elrond his loyalty, and he certainly did not wish to endanger his child, but above all this stood his love for Glorfindel.

While Erestor was wise in all things an Elf could learn with eyes and ears, he had never really had the chance to learn much about feelings until he met Glorfindel. He had seemed controlled, cold, arrogant even, and this appearance had not always been false. Erestor loved to show off his knowledge, and lost patience easily when he had to deal with somebody slower or less intelligent than himself, which had made him a strict tutor to the twins and Arwen. Many feared him, for he knew how to use his sharp tongue to inflict pain worse than the sting of an Orc-blade.

Everybody had noticed with relief how his relationship with Glorfindel and later the arrival of Estorel had mellowed Erestor's less pleasant character traits: he had become more open, warmer, more compassionate.

But despite all this, Erestor was still a warrior at heart, and like so many who had lost everything, he didn't take it lightly when somebody tried to take from him what was his. When it came to Glorfindel and Estorel, Erestor was possessive, and he loved his family with all the passion his heart could muster. He wouldn't have thought twice about killing anybody who tried to hurt his husband or his child, and the more the rage in his heart grew, the less Erestor considered that blind rage was never a good advisor, and could do more harm than good in a situation like this.

Erestor felt a hot, hard ball in his stomach, an anger and a desperation greater than any he had ever felt. His child noticed as well what dark thoughts his sia was harbouring, and began to move and kick nervously.

Erestor placed a hand on his belly, and the anger in his heart calmed a little.

"Do not fear, little one – we will get your ada back, and I will make sure no harm will befall you," he said.

Again, he rattled the door, but it did not give. Elrond knew his advisor well enough to have chosen a chamber with a thick oaken door and a heavy lock, and additionally, he had placed two guards outside Erestor's chamber, to ensure that the Elf did not try to escape.

Unfortunately, Elrond had not placed any guards under the window.

* * *

"I am waiting, Námo."

The Vala of Death gave Manwë a sidelong glance.

"I do not like this, my lord," he said, and looked around the Healing House without much interest, stifling a yawn.

"This is not about what you like or do not like, Námo. You made a mistake - a grave one, I have to add - and now you have a chance to right the wrong. Do not let this opportunity pass, for you will not get another."

The two Vala went into the next room where Elrohir lay, still unconscious after three days, and Elrond had just entered to check on him. A deep frown was on his brow - while Elrohir's condition hadn't worsened, there hadn't been any improvement, either, and by now, the Lord of Imladris was at his wits’ end. He had tried every draught and potion, every trick in the book - but his son remained still and limp like a rag doll.

Elrohir slept. He was as white as the linen he was bedded on, there were bandages all around his torso, and he did not react in any way when the Vala of Death knelt down beside his bed, coming face to face with the young Elf, whose eyes were now closed. His breathing had calmed, and while recovery might take long, he would survive.

"Námo..." Manwë said, but he got no response. Námo remembered the many conversations between himself and Elrohir, remembered how annoyed the young Elf had been by his presence. Remembered how it had felt to hold him. He would be great company, Elrond's son. Námo reached out, his hand hovering over Elrohir's head.

"Do it, Námo. I order you." Manwë demanded, and the Vala of Death came to a decision. The hand over Elrohir's head curled up into a fist and was withdrawn, and Námo looked at his lord, red flames dancing in the black pools of his eyes.

"No."

Manwë stared at the dark figure crouching beside the bed in disbelief.

"No? What do you mean by 'no'?"

Námo straightened up, brushing some non-existent particles of dust from his sleeves.

"'No' as in - no. As in: I refuse. As in: I will not take this one, not yet. As in: I disobey. As in: I shall not follow your wishes. Or, as I already said: no."

Manwë turned an interesting shade of red, and shook his head.

"You cannot be serious, Námo - are you aware of the consequences? With your thoughtless and ridiculous act you have changed the course of time! This Elf was supposed to die at the hands of the man! He should not be here, it is against nature's rules!"

The Vala in black did not move, and it seemed as if his lord's speech had had no impact at all on him.

Manwë stepped closer, grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him hard.

"Do not force me to punish you, in accordance with our laws. I beg you, Námo - do not ask this of me. Touch the young one, take him to your Halls, by all means, befriend him if you have to, but do not let him live. His time is over, he has no right to be here."

Námo cocked his head, and smiled. It was a humourless smile, and Manwë let go of the other and took a step back.

"No."

"Námo, I beg you..." Manwë began, but Námo cut him off.

"I will hear no more of this. I will not take the Elf's life. Whatever punishment you will impose upon me, I shall submit to it."

Manwë looked at his friend, and a great sadness took hold of his heart. Finally, he looked down at Elrohir, and nodded.

"Then so be it."

Elrond and Elladan both sat by Elrohir's side. The Lord of Rivendell held the hand of his child, stroking it gently.

"It is I, little one, your ada. Please, wake up. Open your eyes, look at me, Elrohir. Do not leave us behind, I beg you. My heart cannot take this grief. Wake up, please..." Elrond whispered over and over again, so often that the words lost their meaning and sounded like a sad melody, a lament for a loved one.

Elladan got up, unable to sit still any longer. He pressed a gentle kiss on Elrohir's hair, and stroked one of the blood-matted braids.

"My brother, dear, dear brother - who has done this to you?" he said, using his sleeve to wipe away the tears which blurred his vision. .

That moment, Elrohir opened his eyes.

He did not look at his ada, or at his brother - his gaze was fixed on a point behind the two Elves, seemingly on nothing. He felt oddly light, as if he had drunk a lot of alcohol, and he saw Námo talking with the tallest Elf he had ever seen, a majestic, awe-inspiring Lord, and he reached out a hand to touch the Vala.

"Námo..." he whispered. The Vala smiled, and put a finger on his lips, directing Elrohir to keep quiet. Elrohir smiled, then he fell asleep again - but this time, it was not the eternal sleep, but one that would bring healing to his body and his mind.

Elrond and Elladan looked at each other, then down at the sleeping Elf. They were happy beyond words that Elrohir had spoken and seemed to be on the way to recovery - but at the same time, they were afraid, and very angry.

It was Elladan who finally broke the silence.

"Námo - so we were right," he said, and clenched his jaw.

Elrond nodded, but didn't comment. He gently squeezed Elrohir's hand, and stroked the knuckles with his thumb.

Námo - how in Elbereth's name could they ever hope to defy the Vala of Death?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Námo stood by the window, overlooking the plains and the dark sea, and let his thoughts wander. 'How strange to stand here, in the form of the Firstborn', he mused. He looked down at his hands - narrow hands, with long, almost claw-like fingers. Everything looked so real - his hands, his arms, even his clothes - and yet, it was only an illusion, kept up so as not to frighten the ones to be reborn upon their arrival in the Halls of Waiting.

His finger followed the shell of his ear, up to the pointed tip. He had never thought about it - but what did their children feel? What was it like, being restricted to the confines of a solid body instead of being a spirit, free to roam wherever one wanted?

"So I found you at last."

"So you did, Irmo, my friend," Námo answered, but his eyes didn't move, he kept them fixed on the dark water.

"You could still change your mind, Námo."

The Keeper of the House of Death did not answer. He felt Irmo's sadness, and he wished he could do something about it, but he was not the one to change what had to be.

The master of visions and dreams waited a while, but when no answer came, he left his friend to his thoughts, which were interrupted again later when Námo sensed the presence of another Vala, and this time, he turned around to greet his visitor.

"It is time," Vairë said, and bowed her head.

Námo nodded, then he returned to his place by the window for a short moment, taking in the sight of the sea.

"So it comes to pass - the judge shall be judged," she said, and he realised, to his surprise, that she was angry.

"Why are you doing this? You - who see all and know all, and are almost as powerful as Manwë himself - why are you ignoring our laws? You, before any of us, should know the consequences when life and death become nothing but a game! Have you forgotten the disaster for which Melkor and your brother were responsible?"

Námo cocked his head, hands clasped behind his back. He was quite a contrast beside Vairë's radiant beauty, with his willowy frame, the pale skin and eyes which showed no emotion - black liquid pools, bottomless like the universe. So powerful, she thought - and yet nothing but a shadow. Was this what attracted her? The challenge of trying to find love, hate, anger, passion, sadness - any emotion at all behind his indifference?

"All things come to pass they way they are supposed to. This is the only law I know, Vairë. But you are right - it is time."

He walked past her, and after a moment of hesitation, she followed him.

* * *

It was already deep into the night when Elladan finally left the Healing House and made his way back home. Day after day he had sat by his brother's side, just in case his twin should need anything. He talked to him, silly stories about daily life in Rivendell, talked about Orophin, and how delighted they both were to have Eldanar stay with them. He cleaned the wounds, dressed them in new bandages, turned Elrohir around every three hours so he wouldn't get sore. He washed him, rubbed oil into his skin to keep it from breaking, brushed his hair and braided it, and he would not allow anybody but his ada and Orophin to help him with this task. No matter how often friends and family urged him to take a break - Elladan stayed by Elrohir's side.

Elrohir's condition had improved gradually, he was conscious by now, but he talked slowly, his speech was slurred, and often his words made no sense. When there was nothing else to do, Elladan just held Elrohir's hand, stroking the knuckles gently with his fingers. However, their father was confident that Elrohir would recover, eventually. Just when "eventually" was, he couldn't tell, and he had finally admitted to Elladan that it was very possible Elrohir would not recover fully - magic had been at work here, and while a normal wound would have healed in time, the injuries inflicted on Elrond's youngest son would leave scars.

Elladan sighed, and rubbed his eyes. He was very tired - both physically and mentally. The worry over his brother, the helplessness, the anger - they took their toll on the young Elf. Before he entered his own chambers, he peeked into the room where Eldanar slept, to check on the child.

Eldanar slept peacefully, with closed eyes - a fact which had in the beginning confused Elladan, but he had grown used to it. The Elfling was sucking on his thumb and held Tathar, the loyal dragon, closely pressed to his chest. Elladan smiled, and stepped closer, drew up the cover which the child had kicked off in his sleep, and bent down to press a kiss on the thin, soft hair. Only when he had checked that everything was in order and Eldanar was breathing calmly, did he finally go to the chambers he and Orophin shared.

His husband was sleeping - from the arrow in his hand and the knife on the side-table, Elladan concluded that Orophin had been waiting for him when he had fallen asleep.

The young Elf had to smile. It was such a typical thing for Orophin to do - waiting for Elladan. The young Elf slipped out of his clothes, lay down beside his husband and enjoyed the opportunity to watch his beloved. It was hard to believe that Orophin was so many millennia older than him - since his return from the Halls of Waiting, he looked like a young Elf, and only by looking into his eyes could one see the age and the wisdom. Though many months had passed since Orophin had returned, and they were married now, Elladan still sometimes woke up at night, frightened that he had only dreamt of his beloved's return, and sighing in relief when he found Orophin sleeping peacefully beside him. The nights when Orophin was out in the woods were nights without sleep for Elladan, for he feared to wake up and find him gone.

Maybe it was Orophin's living with the Galadhrim that was responsible for his longing for the open air and the woods. Elladan often wondered if his husband was really happy here in Rivendell, living in the Last Homely House, surrounded by stones. Whenever his duties allowed, the blond Elf would slip out of their home and into the woods, and more than once Elladan had come to look for him, only to find him sitting in a tree, watching the clouds drift by. Did Orophin maybe feel like a bird trapped in a cage? Would he have preferred to live his old life again?

Orophin stirred, and woke up, rubbing his eyes and looking at Elladan with a tired smile.

"I am sorry, I must have fallen asleep while I waited for you," he apologized, putting the arrow aside with a frown, then yawning and stretching. "Some guardian I make, falling asleep while on watch."

Elladan leant forward and kissed his cheek, then he tucked a strand of hair which had fallen in Orophin's face behind his ear. "You have guarded me long enough, now it is my turn."

Orophin smiled, and gently stroked his husband's face.

"Talking of guarding - how is Elrohir doing?"

Elladan sat back on his heels and began to undo his braids.

"Better. He improves daily. He is still exhausted, but ada said this would pass. Elrohir is in pain, but he does not show it - he is very brave. But it is hard to sit by his side, seeing him suffer and not being able to do anything. I always wanted to be a healer to help those who suffer - seeing that all I learned does nothing to improve his condition is painful."

Orophin rested his head in Elladan's lap and gently stroked his hip.

"Your presence and your love might do more for his healing than any draughts or herbs, beloved. There is a strong bond between you."

Elladan had finished unravelling his braids, and now he began to run his fingers through Orophin's hair.

"Yes, there is - at least as far as our hearts are concerned, we are true twins."

Orophin frowned, sensing the sadness in Elladan's voice. He rubbed his face on Elladan's belly, and kissed the soft skin.

"You are true twins in every respect, Elladan. Do not listen to the silly remarks of those who have nothing better to do than let their tongues flutter all day long."

Elladan had to smile, despite his melancholic mood.

"I know that ada has often secretly thought that Elrohir would be a more suitable heir to Imladris. I do not hold this against him, I think he loves both of us very much, but in different ways. As I am his heir, his expectations of me were higher, and could only be disappointed."

Orophin moved and gently pressed Elladan down in the soft mattress, kissing his way from chest to lips.

"Have a little faith in your ada, Elladan. He knows that you can achieve great things if you set your mind to it - just look how he reacted when we told him that we would adopt Eldanar! You thought he would have a heart attack upon hearing that your heir would be a half-elf Haldir found in the woods! And what happened?"

Elladan chuckled.

"He helped me paint duckies on the wall in the nursery. Yes, you are right, that was very surprising."

Orophin nuzzled his ear again, and Elladan closed his eyes, giving in to the sensation. When he felt the pressure of firm lips on his own, he opened greedily to his lover, and responded passionately. Usually, Orophin was a very gentle and considerate lover, but there were times when Elladan craved for more than gentle love-making and the feather light touch of Orophin's hands on his skin.

He bit Orophin's lip, not enough to break the skin, but enough to sting, and though they had been lovers for only a few months, Orophin knew the message behind this gesture. The kisses grew more aggressive, their love making became rough and wild. The ever-present fear of losing Orophin again had awoken in Elladan the need to feel. Teeth biting his shoulder. Fingernails scraping over his back. Fingers digging into his hips. Being taken, giving over all control to his lover, safe in the knowledge that he was alive, not a dream, not an illusion, but real, here, with him, and that, when everything was over, both of them exhausted and their passion stilled, he would be safely held in Orophin's arms.

Elladan's fingers grasped the sheets, eyes still closed, for he had to concentrate on every touch, every contact. Orophin had his face buried in Elladan's neck, never replying to his husband's begging and pleading, but giving him whatever he wanted. Elladan repeated his name over and over again, until the syllables lost all meaning, becoming a murmur and finally a sobbed cry. Orophin gasped in pain as well as pleasure when Elladan's fingernails clawed into his back, leaving deep scratches, drawing blood. He collapsed on the younger Elf, and for a long while, the only sound to be heard was their breathing.

Finally, Orophin rolled off his husband, and winced.

"Have I hurt you?" Elladan asked worried, but Orophin shook his head.

"Do not worry, beloved. It is nothing, just small scratches."

He stretched out on his front, his left arm draped over Elladan's chest, his head resting on Elladan's shoulder. Within minutes, he was fast asleep, and Elladan took a small jar of cooling salve out of the side-table drawer. He lay on his side and began to apply the salve gently to the angry red marks his nails had left on his husband's back. Orophin sighed in his sleep, almost a purr, which made Elladan smile. Then, continuing from where he had been interrupted, he watched Orophin sleep.

* * *

Darkness. Silence. No light, no sound. No voice to cry his pain. The touch of water on his skin, the smell of wet, damp earth - rain? Was it raining? Yes. He had to be careful - one wrong step, and he might fall. Not only down stairs or over objects. He had to concentrate. He sniffed. Mortals. Now he needed to be careful: stairs. One step after the other. Inside? Yes, he was inside a house. A house? The smell of a fire burning - warmth. It was warm, he felt the heat. A fireplace, maybe?

A tug on the rope tied around his wrists, more stumbling steps. A push, falling down. Wood, the floor was made out of wood. Again, the smell of fire. Fear - somebody touched him. A hand touched his hair, played with one of his braids. He tried to move his head, but now another hand touched the tip of his ear. A gentle, curious touch. Then the hands were gone, and he felt himself being lifted up. Whoever carried him must be rather strong. His hand touched a soft fabric - velvet, maybe, and the scent was familiar. Green, fresh. Now he was sat down - pillows? Yes, soft, comfortable, and now something warm was draped over his shoulders. A blanket.

The scent of the fire was now closer, and he felt heat. So he sat in front of a fireplace, on pillows, warmed by a blanket, and now a hand placed something in front of his mouth. At first, he shied back, but then he realized that it was a piece of fruit - dried fruit. Apple? Yes. Dried apple. Maybe it was poisoned? But he was starving - and being poisoned couldn't be half as bad as being blind, deaf and mute.

Hesitatingly, he opened his mouth, and the hand slipped the piece of fruit between his lips. He chewed and swallowed, and felt another piece of food held to his lips.

'I am fed like an Elfling', he thought, 'but who is doing this? Certainly not my captors!'

When the meal was finished, no hands touched him anymore, and he could no longer feel the presence of his - keepers? Guards? Friends? Enemies? So he was alone now. He lay down and wrapped himself in the blanket. A deep sadness overcame him - how far was he from his home, and how hopeless was his situation. So this would be the way he ended? Never seeing Lothlórien, never hearing laughter, never speaking words of love again?

He knew that now the time had come for him to make a decision: to fade or to live. Was there any reason for further suffering? He had no purpose in Middle earth anymore. There were no battles for him to win; there was nobody to look after. A lord without a realm or a purpose - indeed, fading became a rather tempting choice. Would anybody care?

I would.

Where had that come from? He couldn't hear so - how could he hear this? Was his mind playing tricks on him?

I would.

He knew this voice in his head, but he could not tell whose voice it was. But it was a good voice - warm, full of compassion and trust. A voice to hold on to, and the words gave him hope. So he finally allowed himself to sink down on the pillows and sleep.

I would. I would go to Mordor for you, and carry you back, if I had to.

* * *

Elrond, Gil-galad, Elladan, Orophin, Haldir, Feronil, Melpomaen and Mauburz stood around the large conference table, studying the map the Lord of Imladris had laid out, and listening to his plan.

"Thrandúil's scouts have confirmed that the prisoners were taken to Tíngel. They could not, however, count enemy numbers or find out how well they are armed. My friends, we are in a very difficult situation. We know where the enemy is – but we do not know his intentions or what to expect. What we do is madness, but we have no choice: we must summon our forces and attack."

"My lord – what about your suspicion that Lord Námo himself is behind this scheme?" Feronil asked, and Elrond saw fear in the advisor's eyes. He sighed.

"It is just that – a suspicion. We have the book Master Melpomaen found, we have the word of my son – but at the end of the day, we do not know anything. I can only pray that we will not have to confront the Doomsman of the Valar himself, and that if we do, we will find that this is just another of his games, and one he will tire of soon. I know that I ask much of you, my friends. But this is not only about Glorfindel and Celeborn – this is about the fate of all of us. For millennia, something dark and evil has been festering in Tíngel forest. We all knew it, but did not act. Now I pray to the Valar that it will not be too late, and that we will find our brothers unharmed."

Melpomaen, who had been quiet all through the meeting, cleared his throat, and Elrond nodded, encouraging the young advisor to speak.

"My lord Elrond – what about Master Erestor? Do we know where he went to? Can he help us? Surely he did not ride off without a plan?"

"I am sure he has a plan, I just do not know if I like it. But it is my fault," Elrond admitted, "I was a fool to think that I could keep him safe and locked up. I should have known better. He followed his heart, and I think it is safe to assume that his heart will eventually lead him to Tíngel forest."

Elrond saw the worried look on Melpomaen's face. He knew how much Melpomaen admired Erestor and could well imagine that the young advisor feared for his mentor's well-being. They all did, but Elrond managed an encouraging smile.

"Do not worry, Master Melpomaen. Erestor is a very skilled warrior – I have not forgotten the times we stood side by side in battle, and I have every faith that he will stand his ground. He has the instincts of the Plains Elves, and if anybody is able to get into this cursed forest unnoticed, then it is him. What his plans are, I do not know, but I hope that the Valar will hold their hands over Erestor and bring him and Glorfindel back home."

"But is there nothing we can do for him? Send guards? An army? A dragon? Anything?"

Melpomaen didn't like Elrond's answer; the thought of Erestor all alone in a haunted forest full of spiders, Wargs, Orcs, evil deities and, worst of all, Lady Firinwë was too terrifying to accept.

Gil-galad, who stood next to Melpomaen and towered one head above him, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.

"You must understand, Master Melpomaen, that this is Erestor's personal battle. He chose to ride alone. Not all wars are won by armies. He did what he thought to be the right thing, and that is what we will have to do as well."

The former High King turned back, and leant over the table, pointing at the map and explaining his plan.

"The Galadhrim will come from here; I will lead the Rivendell army to Mirkwood where we will meet up with Thrandúil's warriors. Haldir, you will take over the command of half of Galadriel's forces and lead them here. Gondor's army is there. When the time comes, we will attack from all sides. We already know that Orcs are involved, and possibly also the men of Breon, but this we do not know for sure, and we cannot attack the kingdom of Breon on mere suspicion. I tend to agree with Master Feronil that Breon might send mercenaries, but I doubt they would openly join in war – they are too frightened of Gondor."

"I will join the High King."

Gil-galad looked at Elrond as if he suddenly had grown a second head.

"You will what?"

"Join you."

"Do you have a fever?"

"Do you wish to see the dungeons?"

"No."

"Fine. Elladan, for the time being, you are the Lord of Imladris. We will leave some forces behind to protect our realm, but keep your eyes and ears open at all times. Mauburz – as soon as we arrive in Tíngel, you will try to find out what exactly the Orcs are doing there – I hope they have not heard of you yet and will not know you."

"Will do, Lord Elrond. Mauburz goes to Tíngel and spies." She rubbed her paws. "Good! Good! Finally adventure again! Mauburz looks forward to it! When stumbles over Lady Firinwë, can Mauburz spank her?" she asked hopefully, and Elrond had to hide a grin.

"Ah, I suppose the pleasure of spanking Lady Firinwë once we get a hold of her should belong to the guards she stole the ring from. I heard they have a nice selection of birch branches already collected for the occasion."

Mauburz looked rather disappointed, and grumbled: "Nobody ever wants Mauburz to have any fun. Stoopid Elves."

"Who will I ride with?" Melpomaen asked, and everybody looked at him with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

"You will stay here, Master Melpomaen – my son will need a good advisor to help him with his task," Elrond finally answered, but Melpomaen was not happy with this information.

"But – I want to help as well! Surely there is something I could do? I could scout… or be a messenger - I can run fast! Or I could…"

"Did you not hear what Lord Elrond said?" Haldir interrupted the young advisor impatiently. "We are going to war, so warriors are needed, not scholars! You will serve us all best if you stay here and make sure that the dust does not collect on Master Erestor's books until he returns."

For once, Melpomaen was at loss for words. This was the Haldir of old speaking, and he knew from experience that any attempt on his part to disagree with him would end up in a terrible argument, and this was not what was needed now. So he kept quiet and took a step back, told off like an Elfling, and his anger burnt hot in his stomach.

The plan was discussed in detail, and finally, all but Elladan and Orophin left. The young Elf stood by the table, staring at the map.

"Is there anything amiss, beloved?" Orophin asked, and Elladan's shoulders dropped.

"No, nothing – well, of course, there are Orcs, spiders, Wargs, treacherous Valar, black magic and Lady Firinwë, the fact that we go to war and my brother has almost been killed – but this aside, everything is fine."

Orophin hugged his husband from behind, and Elladan rested his head on the blond Elf's shoulder.

"You will do fine, Elladan – you can do so much more than you think," he said, and pressed a kiss behind the slightly pointed ear. "You have good advisors, and do not underestimate Eldanar – since the young one got his wooden sword, he has become a force to be reckoned with!"

Elladan had to laugh, turning and slinging his arms around Orophin's neck.

"Oh yes, our son – do you think we might be able to convince that dreaded toy dragon of his to sleep in his own bed tonight for a change? I do not mind if the young one comes to us when he is scared of a thunderstorm or had a bad dream – but once in a while, I would prefer to share the bed with nobody else but you."

Orophin nipped Elladan's neck.

"Well, we could leave the bed to Eldanar and the dragon, and sleep in the stables…" he murmured, "…or on one of the flets…or in the wine cellar…"

Elladan, who was by now half lying on the table, chuckled.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Orophin?" he asked, batting his lashes. Orophin, who was playing with the top-fastening of Elladan's robe, nibbled on his husband's ear.

"Oh, I just think a warrior should take a nice memory into battle… you sprawled out naked on the hay in the stable would certainly be a nice picture to remember…"

Elladan started up.

"Into battle? What do you mean by that?"

Orophin, surprised by this sudden change of mood, looked puzzled.

"What is wrong, Elladan? I am a captain of the guards, of course I will join my warriors in battle. Your father even said so during the meeting."

Elladan quickly got up.

"I did not hear that, and it does not matter. You will not leave."

Orophin cocked an eyebrow.

"Not leave? But Elladan – this is my duty! It is what I have to do!"

"No, you have not!" Elladan snapped, and began to pace the room. "I do not allow it. I need you by my side. I have already lost you once, I do not, for anything in the world, wish to relive that experience. Be the captain of the forces here in Rivendell if you must, but I will not allow you to go to Tíngel Forest."

For a moment, there was silence, then Orophin stepped to Elladan's side, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"Beloved – I understand you. I know how much you suffered while I was… gone, and I wish I could have spared you the pain. But I cannot send my men to war and sit at home, twiddling my thumbs. I just cannot."

Elladan tore himself free, and glared at Orophin.

"Yes, you can! Nobody is forcing you! There is nothing dishonourable in staying behind, or are you calling me a coward?"

"Elladan, please…"

"No more! I am the Lord of Imladris now, am I not? I hereby order you to stay!"

Orophin stared at his husband, and he wondered if this was still the same Elf he had married.

"You… order me to stay here? Is this what I am to you? A servant? A minion? To be ordered around at your beck and call?"

Elladan swallowed hard. He knew that he had just spoken more than one wrong word, but he could not take them back now, his stubborn head and his fear for Orophin's life would not allow it.

"You are not my servant. You are my husband, and I love you. You are mine, and yes, if I have to, I will order you to obey."

For a long while, the two Elves stared at each other. Then Orophin stepped close to Elladan, so close that the two large Elves were almost touching. Orophin's green eyes blazed, and his voice was cold and calm.

"I will obey. But listen well, Elladan: I am not yours. Nobody owns me, and nobody will own me, ever again. If it was a slave you wanted, my lord, you chose the wrong Elf. I am not your property. Neither yours, nor anybody else's."

Then he walked towards the door, turning around, hand on the handle.

"With your permission, I shall now go and see how your brother fares. I hope you have no objections - master."

With that, he left, slamming the door shut so hard that the glasses on the tables jumped. Elladan swallowed hard, and for a moment, he almost followed his first impulse to run after his husband and apologize. But then he straightened up, jaw clenching. No, he would not give in – if anybody had to apologize, it was Orophin. Maybe his husband didn't know what was good for him – but Elladan certainly knew.

* * *

Erestor needed neither map nor scout to know where he would find Glorfindel, and nor did his horse. Manadh literally flew over stones and tree trunks and did not demand any rest, for he felt that his master didn't allow himself rest either, and maybe he knew how much depended on him. Glorfinkle, who had followed horse and rider since their departure from Rivendell, flew high above them, screeching warnings when he saw danger.

It was not Elrond's chief advisor who rode towards Tíngel - it was Erestor the warrior. The hands that had written words of advice, carried scrolls for centuries and changed Estorel's nappies still knew how to handle the twin hunting knives now strapped to Erestor's back, and the cold rage in his eyes would have scared away most. The ornamental bangs he usually wore were replaced by firm warrior braids, and gone were the robes. Erestor was in hunter's gear, and he was on a hunt – he sniffed the air for the faintest trace of the unique scent that was Glorfindel and followed his instinct. He knew Glorfindel was in Tíngel, and he would find the Balrog-slayer.

There would be no mercy for those who had taken his beloved away from him.

* * *

Of course everybody was very worried that enemies had managed to get so close to the Last Homely House without being noticed.

Of course everybody was extra careful and alert.

Of course Eldanar had to promise his new adas that he would not, under any circumstances, leave the Last Homely House to play in the woods.

Of course he had nodded and promised not to.

And of course he had forgotten all about it the very moment Bramble asked him if he would like to play hide and seek. So it happened that the two children were playing and giggling, moving further and further away from the safety of their home, and they didn't even notice.

Bramble sat in a bush and tried to keep her breathing as flat as possible so as not to alert Eldanar, who was poking in bushes and piles of leaves to find her. She was certainly a true daughter of her Sia - for hours she could sit still, unnoticed, like a wild animal, and just as quick as a rabbit, she would dash out from the most unexpected places, and Eldanar, who was only now beginning to learn the way of the Elves, was at a disadvantage in this game. Bramble, however, made sure he found her often enough that he did not feel unskilled, for she liked the little peredhel very much.

Today, however, their game came to an abrupt halt when an angry growl behind Bramble made her start. She jumped up, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the smell of the pack of Wargs behind her, and seeing the large fangs she suddenly realized that she was all alone here, without her Sia or ada to help her - alone with six obviously very hungry Wargs.

Bramble felt like crying, and though every instinct told her to flee, she felt as if her naked feet had grown roots all of a sudden, keeping her on the spot where she stood. In her despair, she cried for her Sia and her ada, high-pitched screams which made the animals shift uncomfortably, and made the guards on the other side of the valley shudder and search the sky fearfully for Nâzgul.

The animals overcame their confusion quickly, and began to move closer - slowly and carefully, very carefully. This young one looked like easy prey, but they knew that the mother might be close.

"Go away, you ugly beasts!" Eldanar screamed, and jumped between Bramble and the Wargs, waving the small, wooden sword Orophin had carved for him and glaring fearlessly at the creatures, every inch the true son of a warrior.

Unfortunately, bravery doesn't count for much if you're a small Elfling confronted by six hungry Wargs, but it must be mentioned that Eldanar clutched his sword and didn't move an inch when the first of the animals leapt at him. The child cried, but before the razor-sharp claws could dig into his flesh, a loud, angry growl was heard, and something attacked the Warg from the side, making him roll over.

Both Elflings stood rooted to the spot, staring with eyes like saucers at the wild fight which ensued. There was growling and hissing, fangs glinting in the sunlight, then a howl when the jaws of the attacker sank deep into the neck of the animal.

"Sia!" Bramble screamed and now Eldanar, too, saw that the one who had come to their rescue was Rabbit. Blood was running down his chest, but it was impossible for the Elflings to tell if it was his own or the animal’s.

"Ada Orophin! Ada Elladan!" Eldanar screamed as loud as he could, "Help! Help! The Warg wants to eat Rabbit!"

But of course, none of the Elves heard the Elfling's cries, and when the Wargs decided that the two children were no threat to them, they approached again, while Rabbit fought for his life. Eldanar hugged Bramble so hard that the little girl almost couldn't breathe anymore, and they both had their eyes squeezed tight shut - maybe, if they weren't looking, the Wargs would go away?

The Warg never knew what hit him - he was attacked, and before he could even see his enemy, strong hands grasped his head in an iron clasp and snapped his neck with one swift movement. A growl, then a howl, and the next Warg fell, brought down by sharp teeth and claws which tore his chest open. The rest of the pack decided that now was the right moment to leave, but Rabbit's unexpected helper had other plans. He leaped at one of the fleeing animals, biting and scratching. The beast roared and shook his head, throwing off the attacker, and with a powerful blow from his paw, he sent him flying. Then the pack fled into the woods, leaving behind two terrified Elflings.

Rabbit had finally managed to kill his Warg, and was now standing up. He ran over to the children, his face full of fear.

"Are you hurt, Bramble?" he gasped, hugging his daughter close.

"No, Sia, Eldanar told the Warg to go away!" she said, and pointed at the Elfling who trembled with fright. Rabbit drew him close, and hugged both children. Later, he would tell them off for running away, but for now, he was just glad that they were unharmed.

"Sia - I think the Elf who helped us is hurt," Bramble finally said, so Rabbit turned around, then he cocked his head and sniffed. He sniffed again, and began to walk cautiously towards the place where the body had been thrown by the Warg. Eldanar followed him, fists clutched tightly around the wooden sword, ready to fight any Warg that might still be around.

Rabbit knelt down by the fallen Elf, and turned him on his back, and his eyes widened with surprise.

"Surely this cannot be!" he gasped.

"What? What? What? What cannot be?" Eldanar asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the stranger over Rabbit's shoulder. "Is he dead?"

The Plains Elf reached out and felt the pulse, then shook his head.

"No, he lives, but we need to take him to the Healing House. Eldanar - take Bramble by the hand and walk ahead."

Eldanar did as he was told, and so they made their way back to the last Homely House - Eldanar, Bramble, and the last two Mordorian Plains Elves.

* * *

As Elladan had reported, Elrohir was awake when Orophin entered his chamber in the Healing House. He looked exhausted, and his paleness was accentuated by the dark circles under his eyes, but all in all, he looked much better than the day before. He smiled when he saw Orophin.

"Phin, it was nice to be dead," he said, a dreamy smile on his face. Orophin started, and stared at his husband's twin in disbelief.

"Dead? Oh no, you were not dead, little one – almost, yes, but thank the Valar, you will spend many millennia among us," he said, carefully stroking the dark hair which flowed over the pillow.

"Nice," Elrohir murmured.

"What, little one? What is nice?"

Elrohir smiled again, the same odd, dreamy smile he had on his face ever since he had woken up.

"What you do. It is nice, you stroking my hair."

Orophin returned the smile, and knelt down, coming face to face with Elrohir, and he continued to run his hand over the long, dark hair. It was the same colour as Elladan's, but that was where the similarity ended. Elladan's hair was thick and strong, Elrohir's like silk. Twins, and yet so different. It almost looked as if Elladan had all of the mortal heritage, and Elrohir none. Slender, almost delicate looking, no rough edges, no hard muscles, just softness and beauty – which was, of course, an illusion, because Elrohir was as much a skilled warrior as his brother, though it was difficult to tell, as his beauty distracted from his skills.

Elrohir reached out and touched one of Orophin's braids, letting it run through his fingers, smiling again. His fingers ghosted over the other Elf's face, and before Orophin knew what was happening, Elrohir's hand came to rest on his neck, and he drew Orophin closer and kissed him.

It was a sweet kiss. Unlike Elladan, whose inexperience had shown in the beginning, Elrohir had obviously done this many times before. His tongue was toying with Orophin's just the way he liked best, and his fingertips teased exactly that specific spot behind Orophin's ear which drove him crazy.

Finally, they broke apart, and Orophin stared at Elrohir with a mixture of horror and delight.

"Why did you do that?" he whispered, and Elrohir ran his fingers over Orophin's face, caressing the high cheekbones and finally touching the narrow lips.

"It was what I regretted most when I died - that I never kissed you," Elrohir answered, and there it was again, that strange smile, but before Orophin could say anything, the young Elf had fallen asleep again.

* * *

Melpomaen stood in his small chamber and watched the rescue party leaving Rivendell. To say that he was upset would have been an understatement – Melpomaen was fuming, and if looks could kill, Haldir would have fallen dead from his horse. But as the looks of even the most angry advisor couldn't do much harm, Haldir luckily escaped an untimely end.

"'The nerve!" Melpomaen muttered, and kicked the leg of the chair which stood by the window, but as the piece of furniture was solid Lórien work, all he achieved was a stubbed toe, which did not do much to brighten up his mood.

While his gaze followed the small group until they disappeared behind the first trees, the young advisor considered his options. For sure, he could do as he had been told: stay here, look after Master Erestor's library and wait for the heroes to bring Glorfindel and Celeborn home, hopefully unharmed. Though he was very angry with Haldir for his thoughtless remark, he had to admit that the Galadhrim hadn't been completely wrong. A look in the floor-length mirror (a left-over from the handmaid who had previously occupied these quarters) proved Haldir much too right for Melpomaen's liking: he was no warrior. Not even with millennia of training would he become one. This was not so much a matter of the body – there were many warriors who were slight and small – but of the spirit: Melpomaen did not have a warrior's heart.

'I am a sparrow', Melpomaen thought, 'and Lord Celeborn is an eagle. I am nothing to him. I look plain, there is nothing special about me, and most of the time he barely notices that I exist.' Melpomaen shook his head – he even called Celeborn 'Lord' in his thoughts, for Elbereth's sake!

Indeed, Melpomaen was a friendly, well-liked Elf - no different from thousands of others. He was fair to look at, but so were all Elves. A sparrow – but a sparrow in love, though the young advisor probably was not aware that his feelings for the former lord of the Golden Woods went far beyond the crush, blush and admiration stage by now.

He had sworn to himself that he would follow Celeborn to Mordor if he had to, and carry him back. And now they expected him to sit here and dust books? Melpomaen could not tell why he felt the way he did - but he was convinced that Celeborn was NOT in Tíngel. The young advisor had spent hours imagining the most horrible scenarios - Celeborn hurt in a dungeon, chained to the wall, all alone and helpless. And he should stay here?

Melpomaen knew very little about Breon and its people, and he decided that it was high time to fill this gap. There were books in the library, and there was Orophin, of course. He had grown up in Breon. Maybe he would have an idea where Celeborn could be held prisoner?

The young Elf quickly threw a cloak over his shoulders, then he hurried down the stairs of the Last Homely House, in search of knowledge. He would prove his value - or die trying.

 

* * *

The rain was falling heavily, covering the landscape like a grey, wet blanket, and the guards at the gates of Balor, Breon's capital, had the hoods of their cloaks pulled down over their faces. Though the year had already progressed well into spring, it was cold, and their breath emerged in white clouds. From time to time, they would clap their hands to warm them up.

Both men looked rather sour when the merchant's cart approached, for this meant they had to leave the shelter of the guard's hut and step out into the wet, cold open.

"Hooo," the merchant called, bringing the horse to a halt. He, too, was wrapped in a warm cloak, though it was obvious that the cloak had seen better times, judging by the patches in various colours which covered it.

"Who are you, and what is your business in our town? Speak, we don't have all night!" the guard barked when the man didn't react immediately, and the merchant bowed his head submissively.

"I'm sorry, sir, it's the rain, rushes so loud I can hardly hear a darn thing. I'm Elit the merchant, from Baral, just a day's ride from here, and I'm here to stock up on some goods for my shop."

The guard stepped closer. He looked the woman who sat beside the merchant up and down, and grinned.

"And who is this lovely dove, Elit? A souvenir from Gondor?" He pointed at the typical Gondorian headdress the woman wore, and winked at her, which made her blush. She stared at him with big eyes, and pressed closer to Elit, who laughed.

"Almost – this is my wife! We only got married last week, and are on our way back home. Thought I might as well combine pleasure with business and come to Balor's market."

"My, a beautiful wife you have – they might be a disgrace to mankind, but their women are nice to look at. One wonders why their king had to marry an Elf witch, with such treasures in his kingdom." With that, the guard spit on the ground, then he nodded at the woman.

"And what is your name, Gondorian flower?"

The woman didn't answer, just stared at the guard, then she clutched to her husband's arm and made some gestures.

"Beautiful she is, that is true, that's why I married her, after all. I call her Blossom, which is as good a name as any other. She's an orphan, you know, and mute, too." He leant forward and whispered to the guard: "She's a little weird in the head, you see…"

The guard nodded in sympathy, then he slapped Elit's shoulder.

"Still – you're a lucky man. Such a beautiful wife to warm your bed, and no nagging tongue to go with it! I envy you!"

Both men laughed, and the second guard threw in: "If you ever want to trade her for my wife, let me know! I don't care for beauty, if only she doesn't nag!"

Now all three howled with laughter, Elit grabbed his wife rather roughly around the middle, and kissed her soundly on the lips. She blushed again, this time a dark crimson, and hid her face in her husband's cloak.

Amidst loud laughter, the guard stepped aside and gave way to the two passengers. The merchant waved his farewell, then the little cart rolled through the city gates. As soon as the guards had been left behind and were out of sight, the woman elbowed her husband so hard in the side that he yelped and almost fell off the cart.

"Have you gone mad? What was that for? It was only a harmless kiss – did you want them to become suspicious? And whose insane idea was this, anyway?" he grumbled, rubbing his side.

"Now listen: you can kiss me. You can tell people that I am mute. I do not mind that you made me an orphan though both my parents are in best of health. I can even live with the fact that you pinched my bottom in that Tavern yesterday. But," and now the voice lowered to a hiss, "do not ever dare to call me 'Blossom' again, Feronil!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Orophin sat beside Elrohir's bed, hoping the young one would wake up so he could ask him the question which had tortured him since the moment Elrohir had kissed him: why? Why had he done this? Orophin loved Elrohir dearly, but it was not the same love he felt for Elladan. He had never seen Elrohir as anything but Elladan's brother, his charge, a beloved Elfling – certainly never as a possible mate, and for the life of him he could not imagine why Elrohir would want to kiss his brother's husband.

He was still staring at Elrohir in absolute confusion when the door was kicked open and Rabbit stormed in, a black haired, injured Elf in his arms. He was followed by Elladan and Celeron the Healer, with Eldanar and Bramble close behind. Estorel, carried by a servant, cried loudly for his "Siiiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaa!", and for a moment, Orophin feared that the Elf in Rabbit's arms was Erestor, but he soon saw this was not the case. He was thin, the black hair tangled, and his side was covered in blood.

"Ada Orophin, ada Orophin, a Warg tried to eat Rabbit!" Eldanar sobbed, "and he tried to eat me and Miss Bramble, too!"

Orophin crouched down, and Eldanar flew into his arms. Now, with the danger past, the full gravity of the situation sunk in, and the child cried desperately, his small body shaking with heavy sobs which eventually turned into violent hiccups.

Orophin hugged his son, rubbed his back and made soothing noises.

"There, there, penneth, all is well, see? Rabbit and you and Miss Bramble are unhurt and fine, and now we should see to the one who was not so fortunate."

Eldanar hiccupped some more, then he wiped his snotty nose on Orophin's shoulder. The Elf did not mind; when Elladan and Elrohir had been babies, they had covered him in all kind of unpleasant fluids, especially after meals.

Celeron shooed the maid with Estorel out of the room, and Orophin sent Bramble and Eldanar along with them – this was not the place for Elflings, he would talk to them later. Now there was somebody who needed help.

Rabbit laid the Elf on the nearest bed, and for the first time, they had a chance to look at him properly. He was naked, and Elladan's eyes grew wide.

"Rabbit," he gasped, "is this… is this one of your kin?"

The Plains Elf nodded, though hesitantly.

"I think so, though I do not know his scent. He is not of my tribe, but there used to be many of us – who knows? Maybe I am not the only survivor after all."

Elladan sent Orophin for hot water and towels, then he began to clean the Elf’s wounds.

"How did this happen?"

Rabbit quickly explained how Bramble's cry had alarmed him, how he had left Estorel with a servant and gone to the rescue, how the Wargs had attacked and help had come, seemingly out of nowhere.

Celeron shook his head while he watched Elladan cleaning the wounds.

"I have never seen a being like this before," he said, and it was not quite clear whether this was a good thing or not. "Is this a male or a female? It… he… looks like a male, but then again…"

Rabbit growled, his odd green-yellow eyes fixed on the healer, who quickly took a step back.

"No disrespect meant, Master Rabbit – I have just never seen anything… anyone like this before."

Rabbit didn't answer, but instead growled, and crouched down protectively beside the injured Elf. The healer was wise enough to know when to be quiet, but he secretly wondered if Master Erestor had the same physiology as this Elf – if it was an Elf at all – and how Lord Glorfindel put up with such an unpleasant freak of nature. Then again – males did not get pregnant, so it was only logical that Rabbit, Erestor and this Elf were not males. But – what were they then?

He retreated to a dark corner, secretly grateful that he did not have to deal with this patient. Surely this was against nature – and were the Plains Elves not the forefathers of the Orcs? No decent Elf was built like this, that much he knew.

"It is nothing serious," Elladan finally stated, "a flesh wound which should heal quickly, plus a concussion, I suppose. All he needs is rest and quiet, and both he will find here."

"I shall watch over him," Rabbit said, but Elladan shook his head.

"That is an honourable wish, Rabbit, and I understand that you would prefer to stay here, but there is Bramble, and Master Erestor has left Estorel with you. The children need protection, we will look after our new friend."

Rabbit considered the situation for a moment, then he nodded. It was true - he had given Erestor his word to look after Estorel, either until his parents returned or... but this was an option Rabbit refused to consider right now. He gently purred, growled one last time at Celeron and then disappeared out of the door.

* * *

There was a certain kind of tale that Galadriel loved to read, and right now, Rúmil balanced on a chair to search the top shelves in the library for a novel called "Secret tears, secret love" which was supposed to be here. Somewhere. He had been flicking through tome after tome for over an hour, but this particular book was not to be found.

"Why in Elbereth's name do you need this book now, my lady, only a sunrise away from a war?" he had asked a little impatiently, and she had smiled, which, as usual, made him melt into a puddle.

"I need to take my mind off tomorrow's dangers, my dear," she had said, and kissed his nose. He had told her how very much he hated being kissed on the nose, as he was not an Elfling anymore and did not wish to be treated like a pet. She had pretended that she was sorry, he had secretly enjoyed the attention, and now he was here, looking for this three times jinxed book.

"'Secret tears', secret love' – what intellectually challenged mind comes up with such a title," he grumbled while his fingers danced over the shelf. Galadriel and her novels – if it had been up to Rúmil, the author of 'Secret tears, secret love' would have been banished to count Orcs in Mirkwood for all eternity, along with the authors of "My nana's heart was crying" and "Hopeless Love". Ever since he had discovered that Galadriel's mood brightened when he read to her from those books, he kept one by the bed. It did not really matter which tale it was – from his point of view, they were all horrible. Sappy, romantic tales where all tears were either running lonely and single down fair cheeks or blinked away by violet eyes, and golden hair cascaded over the shoulders of the heroine.

Rúmil shuddered and rolled his eyes. Single tears – either one cried or one did not, and when one did cry, it was neither romantic nor beautiful, but all blurry eyes and runny noses. Maybe females had a different perception of this, but he firmly believed that there was absolutely nothing romantic about snot.

But if single tears and golden hair kept Galadriel happy, he would be the last one to deny her such innocent pleasure. Though not so innocent pleasure would have been more to his taste.

He sighed. He had never thought the day would come where he would miss Imladris, but he did. He had never really noticed how strict protocol was in Lothlórien – but now, he felt the rules and standards weigh on his shoulders like a load of bricks. There were two ways for him to see Galadriel: officially demanding an audience, which would be granted or not, depending on the mood of her secretary. The secretary plus a dozen other Elves would be present at all times, and all he was allowed to say was "yes, my lady".

The alternative was climbing up the vine outside her window in the dead of night, which was risky, even for somebody as skilled at tree-climbing as Rúmil, and once he had only avoided a fall and certain death because Galadriel had grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over the window sill at the very last moment. How embarrassing. How could any Elf maintain his libido under such circumstances? Rúmil had had enough. The secrecy and the lies were absolutely not to his liking, and why were they needed, anyway? Had not Lord Celeborn himself given them his blessing? Or at least not tried to kill him? For a moment, Rúmil thought it would be best just to walk into her room, knock the secretary over the head with a scroll and ask Galadriel to marry him.

Rúmil had to grin at this thought. My, the scandal! And the faces of the noble Elves upon learning that he, Rúmil, would become the Lord of the Golden Wood. He shook his head. No, this was not what it was all about. He had no wish to rule. He wished to love. To do everything to make her happy. And as romantic as the idea of a marriage was – Rúmil felt that he had to prove his worth first. In days of old, he would have ridden out to slaughter a dragon or a cave troll for his fair lady, but times had changed, and he knew there was only one thing which could really make Galadriel happy: if Celeborn were saved.

Very well then. If saving Celeborn was what it would take to see Galadriel happy and Rúmil relieved of nightly climbing activities, he would see to it that her wish was granted. This aside, he owed Celeborn a lot for keeping Orophin out of the Halls of Waiting, and Rúmil was an Elf who paid his dues.

* * *

Glorfindel had decided that any more fussing over his health on his wife’s part would result in the argument of all arguments, including bucketfuls of tears and broken cutlery. So as soon as Firinwë left him for a few minutes to "attend to some business", Fin attended to business as well – exploring his home.

So this was where he had grown up and lived all his life? The blow to his head must have been harder than anybody thought because for the life of him Fin could not remember this place. The pictures did not look familiar, and the men he had encountered so far were not to his liking. His wife was surely very beautiful and obviously cared very much for him, but as hard as he tried, Fin could not return her feelings. He felt guilty about it – surely being married was about loving and caring for each other? So why was he unable to offer her any comfort? He had noticed well the hurt expression on her face when he avoided her touch or placed a quick peck on her cheek rather than kissing her passionately.

How could a hit on the head change one’s heart in such a drastic way? Her touch left him cold, he could hardly bear her hands on his body, and so he feigned sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. But sleep didn’t bring him peace, either – strange dreams haunted him, of trees and horses, a child's laughter, and he even dreamt of a lover – he remembered long black hair fanned out over the pillow, the nibbling of sharp teeth, whispered words of love – but every time he thought he could see his dream lover's face, he woke up, covered in cold sweat and burning with a need his wife would never be able to satisfy.

He still felt weak, but he had to find his old life again, otherwise he would lose his mind.

* * *

The very moment the Rivendell party had crossed Mirkwood’s border, discussion and laughter ceased. This was Thranduil's realm, and the ruler of the Wood Elves did not have a reputation for being a hospitable host. Many of the younger guards had grown up with their nana's threat of "Thranduil will release the spiders if you do not finish your meal". In their imagination, Thranduil had grown an extra head and long fangs, and when they saw him at the annual conference of the Elven lords, they were almost disappointed to see that King Thranduil of Mirkwood appeared exactly the noble Elf he was. It was fortunate that he did not miss any chance to show his quick temper, or his bad reputation might have been damaged.

Elrond, riding beside Gil ahead of the troops, looked around, and was amazed by the silence.

"Not a bird, or the bark of a dog - has all wildlife fled this place?"

Gil shrugged.

"The animals of this forest have learned to be quiet and hide if they want to survive. Mirkwood is poor - when winter comes, large hunting parties ride out for deer and rabbit to fill the stomachs of the hungry people."

Elrond frowned, and for a while, they continued their ride in silence. The Lord of Imladris turned his head from left to right, as if searching for something.

"This is odd - we crossed the border of Mirkwood two hours ago, and still not a single guard has shown up. I had not expected the Woodland Elves to be so careless, especially considering Thranduil's almost obsessive dislike of foreigners."

The High King looked at his former herald, grinning.

"Oh, they are here. A hundred eyes were watching us, long before we passed the border. If they considered us a threat, we would all be dead by now."

"Really? How - comforting to know."

Elrond continued to eye the bushes and trees alongside the road, and once or twice he thought he saw the reflection of light on metal or a quickly withdrawn hand, but it was very much possible this was only in his imagination. He did not like the idea of being watched, without being able to see those who watched him.

"In any case this is not behaviour befitting allies who are due to fight by our side," he continued his train of thought aloud, "and I wonder if..."

Nobody ever got to hear exactly what it was that Elrond wondered, because at that very moment, it began raining Elves. 50, 60, maybe even more, appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and only a soft rustle indicated that they had hidden in the trees. A tall Elf landed right in front of Elrond's horse, soundless, like a cat, and the animal neighed in fright.

"We all wonder at times, Elrond," Thranduil said, standing with his arms crossed over his chest and a mocking smile on his lips. "I, for example, wonder how we managed to stay undetected by your guards for hours. What is it that Lord Glorfindel teaches your fierce soldiers in Rivendell? Hiding? Or the famous "Duck and Cover" manoeuvre Gil-galad perfected during the Great War?"

Elrond turned a darker shade of purple, experiencing a mad desire to throttle Thranduil, but Gil's hand on his arm held him back, and a look in the High King's eyes told him to ignore the Mirkwood King's behaviour.

"Oh, stop being silly, Thranduil," an annoyed voice could be heard, "you can re-establish your reputation as an old grump some other time, now we have more important things to do."

Thranduil opened his mouth for a fitting reply, but closed it again when Amaris pushed through the lines of the Mirkwood Elves and stepped forward to greet the new arrivals.

"Lord Elrond. Sire. Welcome to Mirkwood."

He bowed his head, and Gil swallowed hard.

"I am most pleased to see you again, Amaris," he finally managed to say, and Amaris cocked an eyebrow, walking closer to the king's horse. The Mirkwood Elf saw the spear which was fixed to the saddle, and ran his index finger over the sharp tip, cutting his flesh in the process. He watched a thin line of blood run down his finger, then he slowly licked it off.

"My, your royal highness - do you have plans to spear for eels here in Mirkwood? You come at the right time, it is the season for eels. Or is this the royal toothpick? A bit long for that purpose, I should think."

Gil galad, who had watched Amaris' tongue licking the blood from his finger with the fascination of a rabbit facing a snake, finally snapped back to attention.

"You know what they say - my sword is long, my lance is keen, Amaris."

Amaris wiggled his eyebrows, then he gave the High King a sultry look.

"Ah yes - your sword is long, Sire. Mine is longer though, but as neither you nor I nor any of the honourable Elves here wish to fall into darkness while we compare, I suggest we continue to my brother's home, where you will find refreshments. Follow me."

Gil did his best to ignore the snickers coming from the Elves behind him, and continued on his way. He had been looking forward to seeing Amaris again - his old friend and advisor. And now he felt oddly out of place - this was Amaris' territory, and even if he had called him "Sire", it was obvious who was the king of these woods - bushes and trees seemed to bow in front of Amaris and Thranduil, while he had to duck more than once to avoid being hit or scratched by a branch.

Elrond noticed this too, and when his initial anger over the respectless welcome had finally subsided, he leant over to Gil galad and whispered:

"Did he tell the truth, Gil?"

Gil gave him a puzzled look.

"You ask me? I have a hard time telling you what age we are living in, so I certainly do not know if it is eel hunting season in Mirkwood or not."

"No - is his sword longer than yours?"

Gil stared at Elrond, then he scratched his head.

"How am I supposed to know? I only ever saw him using bow and arrow. But I can ask him to show you his sword once we arrive at Thranduil's cave, if it is of such great interest to you."

With that, he sat up again, and for the umpteenth time on this journey, Elrond secretly wished he was at home, in his wine cellar, in the process of getting completely drunk.

* * *

"May I help you?" a voice like velvet asked behind him. Rúmil jumped, dropping the book he had been holding, for this voice had a similar effect on him to the scratching of fingernails on a chalkboard.

He turned around, and faced a tall Elf with golden hair, who was clad in the most outrageous crimson-coloured robe Rúmil had ever seen. He was almost tempted to shade his eyes, though this was probably due not only to the crimson of the robe, but also to the bright yellow roses embroidered on its front.

The owner of the scandalous gown bent down and picked up the book, studying the title.

"'And forever her tears flowed' - now look at this. If this is popular reading among the Galadhrim, all is not lost in Lothlórien," the Elf said, and handed Rúmil the book with a grin that filled Rúmil with the insane wish to strangle the other.

"It is not, my lord, and with your permission, I must leave, I am awaited," Rúmil grumbled, gnashing his teeth.

"Ah, what a pity - it is a wonderful tale, so full of romance, emotion – drama," the Elf lord sighed, looking very disappointed, "I had hoped we could discuss it while gathered around the fire at night. It is important to boost the moral of the troops, you know, especially before a battle. I might even read some of my poems."

Rúmil paled at the thought of sitting with his fellow Galadhrim by the battlefield while this outrageous individual read poetry.

Poetry?

Battlefield?

Hopefully this did not mean....

"Pardon me, my lord, my question might be bold, but... what troops? What moral? And, even more important - what battle?" he squeaked.

"What battle? But, my dear young friend - you did not think I would sit here in Lothlórien while you ride out to war! All this pent-up aggression, heroic young warriors in tight fitting armour - certainly I could not pass up this opportunity to bathe in inspiration!"

If somebody had told Rúmil that Lady Galadriel had just decided to give up her realm and start a career as a tavern-dancer, he could not have looked more shocked.

"You must be joking, my lord," he stammered, "this is not a game! This is..."

"I know very well what this is, penneth," the Elf lord said, and his voice had suddenly a sharp edge to it. He stepped closer to Rúmil, and the archer felt he had just seen behind a mask. Cold blue eyes blazed with barely controlled anger.

"Nobody attacks my family and goes unpunished. I cannot tolerate this, and I will not tolerate it. This is also my war, Elfling - and I will fight it with or without the help of the Galadhrim."

Just when Rúmil began to get seriously scared, the mask was back in place, and the Elf lord threw his bright orange velvet cloak around his shoulder in a most dramatic gesture.

"And now please forgive me, I just had an inspiration for a poem, which I must write down immediately, or the world will mourn the loss of a masterpiece. Farewell, my friend!"

With that, he almost danced out of the library, and Rúmil wondered if they all had been taken for fools these last millennia.

* * *

Elladan felt a headache coming on. It was a bad one, starting above the eyes and slowly creeping to the back of his head, taking up residence there and lurking, a dull, throbbing presence, which would eventually explode into sharp pain. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, then he looked over his father's desk at the two Elves in front of him.

"I repeat my question," he finally said, his voice only barely controlled, "and I wish a short, clear answer: Melpomaen and Feronil did what?"

The two Lindir's shuffled their feet and looked, despite their age, like two Elflings caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

Lindir the minstrel glanced quickly at Lindir the eternal Elfling, who clutched his Nana Goose doll as if his life depended on it. He did not dare to look up and face the interim Lord of Imladris, for Elladan had obviously not been pleased by the news he had just heard.

Minstrel Lindir decided that it was his turn to answer, especially as Lindir hid behind him, fearfully eyeing both Elladan and Orophin.

"Well, it is as young Lindir here said – Melpomaen and Feronil have left Imladris for Breon. He surprised them in the stables, and when Lindir asked them where they would ride to, Melpomaen said that they had important business. He asked what kind of business, and Feronil said they were about to place a large order for lollipops. At first I thought Lindir had made the whole story up, but when he mentioned the lollipops, I knew that he spoke the truth – who else but Feronil would come up with such an idiotic and hackneyed explanation!"

Lindir the younger stomped his foot and pouted.

"I always tell the truth! And I can prove it! Just ask Miss Goose, she was there, too."

By now, Elladan's headache was in full bloom, and he began to see stars.

"I think we can question Miss Goose some other time," Orophin said, "it was a very brave thing to tell us what you know, Lindir. You might have saved Master Melpomaen's and Master Feronil's lives."

"I did? No – or did I? Oh. That is – really? Oh, I must go and tell Mr Rabbit and Miss Bramble all about it!" Lindir cheered, and before anybody could say another word, he ran out.

"Lindir – you know Feronil better than any of us. What are his chances and skills? I know that Melpomaen can handle neither sword nor bow."

Lindir the Minstrel looked rather uncomfortable, and his eyes wandered from Elladan to the very stern looking Orophin who had asked the question.

"Orophin – my lord – lords – Lord Glorfindel never allowed Feronil close to any weapon. He feared that he would accidentally kill either himself or somebody else. He is a good advisor, I guess, and he knows many card tricks and can juggle with five oranges, but I doubt these skills will be very helpful on a suicide mission like this."

Elladan buried his head in his face.

"Thank you, Lindir. You may go. And close the door behind you, thank you."

The minstrel did not need to be asked twice to leave, he was out of the door faster than lightning, leaving two very worried Elven lords behind.

"Feronil and Melpomaen on a secret mission in Breon – can you imagine anything worse?"

Orophin thought about it for a moment.

"Mauburz on a diplomatic mission in Lothlórien?"

"This is not funny."

"I know. I was only trying to cheer you up."

Elladan gave his husband a sidelong glance, and Orophin's heart contracted painfully when he saw how pale the younger Elf was. His eyes had a haunted look and were framed by dark circles.

"Considering that you have not spoken a word to me since our row, I should be grateful for your attempt at humour, I suppose."

Orophin sighed, then he walked over to Elladan, knelt down beside him and took his hand, rubbing the knuckles gently with his thumb.

"Beloved – we both spoke words we now regret. At least I know I do. I know that your actions are directed by your fear, but it is essential for both your future as the Lord of Imladris and our relationship that you overcome this. Nothing in life is guaranteed, so we need to live every day to its fullest, not worrying about things which might happen one day."

Elladan put his other hand on Orophin's, and pressed it.

"I love you, you know. You are a part of me, and if I lose this part, I will be no more. I used to laugh about tales which told of such love, for I did not think it possible. Now I know better. I feel that you are not happy here, not completely. I feel as if I had caught a precious bird in a cage, only to see it fade away with sadness. Tell me, beloved – what can I do? What can we do?"

Orophin kissed Elladan, a short, but loving kiss, then he stroked his cheek.

"It is true – I do feel caged in, but yet, I am not unhappy. We both need time to think things over, Elladan. Right now, Melpomaen and Feronil are in deadly danger. Please, let me go to Breon. I am the only one who can help them, I know the language, I know the customs, I know the people. I lived there for many decades, and while the world of the mortals changes faster than ours, some things will still be familiar. We cannot leave them to their fate, Elladan, and we both need some time alone."

Elladan stared at his husband, and unbidden pictures came to his mind. He saw himself collecting wood for Orophin's funeral pyre. Visiting his monument. He remembered the endless hours of sadness and mourning. A life was such a fragile and precious little thing, shattered and lost in the fraction of a moment.

But he also remembered other moments – Orophin jumping in the river to fish him out, teaching him how to use a bow, fighting off Orcs. He was the older, the wiser one of them, and Elladan had no right to lock him up in a cage, no matter how beautiful it might be.

Elladan hugged Orophin, burying his face in his neck, his hands messing with the silver blond hair, as he rubbed his face on his husband's neck.

"Go to Breon, Orophin. If you think this is the right thing to do, so be it. Just know that I will be waiting for you here, and whatever happens, never doubt that I love you."

For a long time, the two just sat there, holding each other. Then Orophin got up, and pushed his hair out of his face.

"I shall go and prepare to leave now. I must also explain the situation to Eldanar – I do not wish the little one to fear he will lose another father."

Elladan nodded.

"Yes – I will try to find him and lead him to our chambers."

Orophin leant over the desk and kissed his husband.

"And what about this warrior's farewell we have been talking about?" he murmured, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"All in due time," Elladan said.

"Elflings first, husbands later."

* * *

"This," Melpomaen said, "is a very narrow bed."

Feronil pretended to study the object in question at length, then he nodded.

"Your powers of observation are remarkable, Melpomaen. Yes, indeed, it is very narrow, so I am quite glad that I will share the bed with you, not with Haldir."

Melpomaen smiled sweetly at his fellow advisor.

"My dear Feronil - would you do me the favour and repeat this little 'joke' once we are back in Imladris?"

"Why - have you finally discovered the charms of my wit?

"No. But I would like to see how Rabbit and Orophin re-arrange your limbs in a most interesting fashion."

With that, the young Elf turned to pick up his bag, and Feronil grumbled:

"I see that you have been a good student of Master Erestor. Hurry up now with unpacking, I am starving, and I would prefer to finish our meal while the tavern is still empty."

"We could still order food to be brought up here," Melpomaen suggested, but Feronil shook his head.

"We pretend to be poor merchants. Having food served in the chamber is something only wealthy travellers would do, and I do not wish to attract attention."

"Could we not pretend to be wealthy merchants? I do not want to have my evening meal among those people, some of them seemed rather rude and gave me funny looks."

Feronil slapped his hand against his forehead.

"Wealthy merchants – of course. I shall die regretting the moment when I agreed to this madness. Melpomaen – we will go down there, have our simple meal and return to our chambers. I will handle everything, all you have to do is sit by my side like a good wife and try to be as invisible as possible."

Melpomaen snorted.

"Oh yes, you will handle it – Feronil of Imladris, the expert in all things mortal! Remind me again why I chose you to accompany me on this expedition."

Feronil turned around and glared at the young advisor.

"Now listen, penneth – I will tell you why I chose to accompany you: because you do not speak a single word of Westron, because you have not the slightest knowledge about the customs of the mortals, and because I am one of the last truly honourable Elven knights. I am doing all this out of the pure goodness of my heart, and you should be grateful."

"Ha! Goodness of your heart – you are here only because I promised you that I will arrange an intimate dinner for you with Minstrel Lindir. Goodness of your heart – the laugh!"

Feronil started and looked around.

"For Elbereth's sake, Melpomaen – lower your voice! Do you wish to have ten armed guards at our door within minutes? Just think what happened to Orophin – do you wish us to end up in the mines or a blacksmith's shop?"

Melpomaen stared at the older advisor with eyes like saucers.

"Mines? Blacksmith shop? What are you talking about, Feronil?"

"You do not know? But you said you talked to Orophin about his life in Breon…"

"Yes, I did, I heard that he had grown up somewhere here, but he said he could not remember, that he had been too young. If you know anything, Feronil, then please tell me."

Feronil sighed, and dropped down on the narrow bed. He ran his hands through his hair, and gave Melpomaen a stern look.

"Fine, I will tell you. But this stays between you and me. He does not wish it to be common knowledge, and we must respect this."

Melpomaen nodded, and sat beside the advisor.

"I shall not breathe a word of the things you are about to reveal, Feronil. You have my word on it."

"Good. Now, when Orophin was still an Elfling, he was stolen from his parents’ house and sold into slavery in Breon. There he lived for well over 80 years before he managed to escape. I do not know if the people here still treat Elves like that, or if they are still allowed to keep slaves, but I have no intention of finding out!"

Melpomaen shuddered. A slave? Proud, wise Orophin? By Elbereth - what had they gotten themselves into!

Feronil already regretted telling Melpomaen Orophin's tale - the young one was clearly shocked. He put an arm around the young advisor's shoulder and squeezed it encouragingly.

"Now do not look like a chicken that just met a fox, penneth. Fools are always lucky, so I am sure we will get out of this unharmed. Or at least still alive. I hope. Really, no need to worry."

Melpomaen looked far from convinced, and Feronil decided that it was time for a little distraction now, so he drew the young Elf close and kissed his neck.

"What was that?" Melpomaen gasped, and Feronil rolled his eyes.

"An offer. You can either accept or refuse it."

The young Elf blushed deeply, then he shook his head.

"I know you mean well, Feronil, and that you try to take my mind off my fears, but I am a One-Elf-Elf."

Feronil cocked an eyebrow.

"What in Arda's name is a 'One-Elf-Elf'?"

"It means that I save myself for the one I truly love," Melpomaen stated with all the dignity he could muster, and Feronil dropped back on the bed, covering his face with his hands.

"Oh Manwë!" he moaned, "not only am I stranded in this forgotten place, no, I also have to share my chamber with the last remaining virgin in Middle Earth! What, I ask you, have I done to deserve this?"

Manwë had a pretty good idea about the reasons, but as the list would have been too long, the Vala preferred not to answer.

* * *  
Celeborn still had not managed to figure out where he was. He was treated very kindly, there was plenty of food, and at night, he was led to a large, soft bed. This might be a prison, but it certainly was not a dungeon. It was amazing how quickly his remaining senses had adapted to his state. Never had he smelled, tasted or touched so consciously. The initial panic of eternal silence and darkness had settled, and now he concentrated on exploring his new surroundings with those senses he had left, drawing a mental map of the place.

There was one room with an open fire, where he had slept on the night of his arrival. Next to it was the chamber he referred to as "his hide-out", which was obviously furnished with a large bed and the low table and cushions to sit on which seemed to be used in all the rooms here. There were no chairs as far as he could tell, which was a little odd. Did he know of a place where people sat on cushions?

Then there were those who looked after him. They were three, each with a very individual scent which made it easy for Celeborn to tell them apart. The man who smelled like fresh cut grass brought the food and saw to the fire, the one he had named "Lemon" and identified as a female helped him to wash and dress. Then there was the one who mostly looked after him, and whose presence he felt often. The man must be very large, for he had taken to carrying Celeborn to places where, at least so the Elf lord assumed, it was not possible for one who was blind to go all by himself. His scent – the first day Celeborn had found it very difficult to place it, now he knew what it was: water. Clear, fresh water.

His days were filled with touching and smelling, trying to learn more about his prison. But at night, when he was all alone, fear crept back into Celeborn's heart. Darkness, silence, loneliness. The three things Celeborn feared the most. And why was he here at all? Why did Finwë not just kill him? It made no sense, and the more Celeborn thought about it, the more afraid he became. He felt like a helpless pawn in a game where he knew neither the rules nor the stakes, but he knew one of the players, and this filled him with despair.

Celeborn started up, covered in clammy night sweat, and took some deep breaths. A nightmare had plagued him, and if he had still had a voice, he would have screamed, but there was nothing but silence and darkness. He was entangled in the bed sheets, and, trying to get free, lost his balance and fell out of the bed. He felt the pain when he hit the ground, and for a brief moment, Celeborn wished he was an Elfling again so he could run to his nana and cry. He covered his face with his hands, which made no difference to the darkness which surrounded him, and began to cry, a voiceless crying. He tasted the salt of his tears on his lips.

Somebody put a blanket over his shoulders, just like on the first night, and Celeborn knew that it was his caretaker. Why was he here? Had he heard him? He was lifted up and placed gently on the bed again. Strong arms forced him to lean back, holding him, and slowly, he calmed down. He felt the body behind him vibrating, a familiar sensation he could not place. But of course - the one holding him must be humming, like he had hummed to his daughter when she had been an Elfling and woken up from a nightmare, crying. How odd - he, the mighty Elven Lord, helpless and dependent on others, hummed to sleep!

Celeborn reached out in the direction the other's face - he might not be able to see the one who looked after him, but he could touch him, and "see" his face with his fingertips. A straight nose, thin lips, obviously smiling, high cheekbones, short, very soft hair, the lobe of an ear... Celeborn froze, pulling his hand back. Did his senses betray him? Surely this could not be! He hesitated for a moment, then he reach out again, touching the ear - and no, he had not erred: the ear ended in a delicate point.

His caretaker was an Elf.

* * *

When he woke up, it took him a while to collect his thoughts. His head hurt, which, in itself, was already an amazing experience, and when he tried to sit up, he winced at the pain in his side. Pain - interesting. He lay down and sat up again, to experience the stinging sensation once more.

There had been a fight - that much he remembered. He noticed the bandage around his waist, and concluded that he must be in a Healing House.

Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and looked around. The room was dark and warm, a herbal scent in the air. He sniffed. How did he know this was the way herbs smelled? He could not tell, but he liked the scent, and breathed deeply to inhale it.

For a moment, he just sat there in the dark, his senses taking in every detail of his surroundings. Then he sniffed again - a familiar scent. Slowly, he slipped off the bed, taking a few careful steps. His head was spinning, and he had to reach out for the frame of the door which led to the other room to avoid falling down. So he was injured - not a pleasant experience. He would avoid it in future.

A young, dark haired Elf lay on the bed, sleeping, a blond Elf standing by his side, stroking the dark hair lovingly.

He stepped closer - the familiar scent was the young one's. He sniffed, and crouched down, ignoring the blond.

"He will die," he said, surprised, and looked up at the silverblond Elf in the white robe.

"Yes, he will."

"Blood loss?"

"No, Orc poison."

He walked around the two, his eyes always fixed on the young Elf who seemed to sleep.

"I know this one," he finally said, reaching out to touch Elrohir, but drawing his hand back at the last moment.  
"He looks so soft. And flushed. Is this fever? I do not want him to die."

The silverblond Elf shook his head.

"That is not your decision to make."

He returned his attention to Elrohir, whose breathing had become flat and almost imperceptible, and whose eyes had begun to look empty and dull. Before the silver blond Elf could react, he reached out and touched Elrohir, and Elrond's youngest son was bathed in a warm glow for a moment. A gasp, a moan, and then he was asleep - but life had returned to his eyes, his breathing was even, and the unhealthy heat had disappeared.

The silver blond Elf hid his face behind his hands, and shook his head.

"What have you done - have you lost your mind completely now?" he groaned, staring at the black haired Elf who crouched beside Elrohir, disapproval all over his face.

"Not at all, dear friend. You were right in your statement - it is not my decision that the young one here should die."

The black haired Elf tried to get up, stumbled, suddenly drained of all energy, and the blond hurried to his side, catching him and carrying him back to the other room, where he laid him down carefully on the bed. He stroked his hair, and sighed.

"So why in Eru's name did you do this, old friend?"

The dark haired Elf looked up.

"I have decided death for so many, Irmo - at least once, I had to decide for life."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Orophin saw the movement in the mirror – the door opened and a shock of silver blond hair appeared.

"Please come in, Eldanar," he said, and turned around, smiling encouragingly at the Elfling.

Eldanar took a few hesitant steps into the chamber, his grip on his toy dragon Tathar tightening when he saw that Orophin was packing. For a moment, the child just stood there and stared, then he hung his head and shuffled his feet.

"I am sorry, ada Orophin – I really did not want to cut Sildil's hair off, but there were scissors on the table, and he was sleeping, and… and… he likes it now, ada, and he says he is glad I cut his hair off!"

Orophin, who, up to this point, had been completely oblivious of his son's latest prank, decided that he preferred not to hear all the details. He knelt down so he was not taller than the child, and looked at Eldanar.

"This is not about Sildil or whatever nonsense you have been up to again, penneth. I wanted to say goodbye to you, I am going on a journey, and it might be a while until I return."

Eldanar stared at his adoptive ada, and Orophin saw the tears welling up in the child's eyes.

"I do not want you to go to war."

Orophin stood and picked Eldanar up, carrying him over to the bed and sitting down with him. Eldanar shifted on his knee, not daring to look at him. He poked Tathar with his index finger and tried to knot the dragon’s wings together.

"I am not going to war, Eldanar. I go to bring Master Melpomaen and Master Feronil home. They are in danger and need help."

Eldanar still did not look up.

"But you are going away," he murmured. Orophin nodded, hugging the child closer.

"Yes, I am going away. But not forever, Eldanar. I will soon be back, and until then, I want you to keep an eye on your ada Elladan, Miss Bramble and Estorel. Will you promise me this?"

Eldanar nodded.

"Yes, but only if Estorel does not bite me."

Orophin had to hide a grin, for the toddler only possessed two teeth so far.

"You are not going to die, are you?"

"I have every intention of returning, penneth."

Eldanar hit Orophin with his dragon and glared at him.

"That is what my ada said when he went to war! And still he died, and he wore shiny armour! You do not have shiny armour, and when somebody pokes you with a sword, it will hurt!"

Eldanar sniffled, snuggling closer to Orophin, whose heart grew heavy at the sight of the frightened Elfling.

"Eldanar – I do not need any armour, because I am not going to war. I am on a secret mission, which is very important and interesting."

"I do not like Feronil," Eldanar sobbed, wiping his runny nose on Orophin's shirt. The Elf gently wiped away the tears from the child's face, and stroked his hair.

"We all have a responsibility for each other, Eldanar. It is very important that you understand this. If somebody is in danger, it is your duty to help. No matter whether you like him or not. We do not have the right to decide who is worth rescuing and who not. Your ada knew this. He was very brave, and gave his life to save others."

Eldanar unknotted Tathar's wings, and bit his lip.

"I want to be a great warrior like my ada one day. And then I will go and save all Elves, even those I do not like, but first you and ada Elladan, and then Miss Bramble. And Estorel."

Orophin smiled. "I am glad to hear this, penneth." He kissed the child.

"You can begin being a great warrior today, Eldanar, by helping me to prepare for my rescue mission. Do you think you can do this?"

"Yes! Oh yes!" Eldanar cheered, all tears forgotten, and he whacked Orophin over the nose with his toy dragon in his enthusiasm. Orophin winced, but said nothing.

"What shall I do? Paint your bow? Or get Lembas? Or…"

"No, no, Eldanar. I have something else in mind."

He turned around, took a pair of scissors from the table and handed them to Eldanar, who stared at them with big eyes.

"And now tell me that story about Sildil and the haircut…"

* * *

The problem was neither the first glass of wine nor the second. Even the third and the fourth were sweet and lovely, but by the time Feronil had emptied glass number 7, he began to wonder why he suddenly found himself sitting beside three Melpomaens instead of one. A mystery – and all the more annoying because all three Melpomaens looked decidedly grumpy.

Feronil giggled. This was too precious for words. Poor Melpomaen, doomed to play the "poor, mute wife", for once could not lecture him on the dangers of wine, but had to sit there and endure his company. Ah, the young one was too stern for his age, he needed to cheer up, or he would end up an old sourpuss like – like – well, like himself, actually, but whose fault was that? All Lindir's fault, of course! If the minstrel had not been so cold hearted and unforgiving, he would have accepted Feronil's offers. Feronil had to admit that constantly insulting somebody might not be the best way to show appreciation, but really, Lindir had a good head on his shoulders, he should have figured out his intentions by now! Yes, it was all Lindir's fault.

After this conclusion, Feronil really needed another glass of wine, so he ignored Melpomaen's glares and the tugging on his sleeve.

"Ha, your wife seems eager to get you into her bed, Elit," his drinking companion snickered, and Feronil scratched his head. Elit? Who in Elbereth's name was Elit?

Oh. He was.

"Yes, she is the best of all wives," Feronil giggled, pinching his „Blossom“’s bottom and earning himself a very painful kick on the shin, which made him howl.

"You wild little thing, you," he growled, drawing Melpomaen into a wet and noisy kiss which won him cheers and applause from those gathered around their table.

This was too much for Melpomaen. He got up, banged his fist on the table, then left the room, and the laughter which followed his exit still rang in his ears even when he lay wrapped in quilts and covers in the narrow bed.

Feronil, in the meantime, indulged in further beverages, laughing at the most stupid jokes and behaving in every way like a mortal.

Then he noticed the two men who seated themselves at the next table, and sobered within seconds.

Now this was the last person he had expected to see here!

* * *

Elrond stepped out of the Great Cave, Thranduil's residence, and took a deep breath of the cool night air. The night in Mirkwood was different from Rivendell –no crickets chirping, no muffled laughter of lovers who had sneaked out for a secret meeting in the woods. Even the darkness seemed darker here than in Rivendell, and Elrond felt a little lost.

The King had assigned him a luxurious chamber, hewn into the mountain, the stone floor covered with the pelts of wild bears, the walls decorated with tapestries telling of the heroic deeds of the royal family and their people.

Food had been set out on a small table and a fire lit in the fireplace. It was a place to feel safe in, protected – but he would have enjoyed it more if he could have shared it with Gil-galad. The High King, however, had voiced different plans, and was currently out in the forest, sharing quarters with his troops who had set up their tents close to the Great Cave.

Elrond had tried to convince Gil that he needed rest before they went to battle, and that his drinking the night away with the Rivendell guards would not improve their chances, but Gil had disagreed.

"I am their leader. They must know that I am here, what kind of king would I be to sleep in a soft bed while they lie on the hard ground?"

Elrond had disagreed, and once again, they had almost argued. 'Almost', because Gil had done the same thing he did every time they disagreed: he had left. At times Elrond wondered if they even spoke the same language, for no matter what he said, Gil would shrug, say "if this is how you feel, there is not much I can do about it" and then do what he wanted to do, anyway.

From where he stood, Elrond could see the light of the camp fires, and hear the voices of the guards. From time to time, a roar of laughter could be heard. The Lord of Rivendell felt like an outsider, and drew his cloak closer around his shoulders, though he was not sure if it was really the cold night wind that made him shiver.

"If you should intend to take a little walk, I would offer you my company, Lord Elrond" a voice beside him said, and Elrond turned around to face Amaris. The Wood Elf was dressed in the usual greens and browns of Mirkwood, his clothes were worn and not much different from those of a simple guard, but he had a presence that left no doubt of his royal blood.

Elrond hesitated a moment, then he bowed his head.

"I would be honoured and grateful, Lord Amaris. Many centuries have passed since I last walked these woods, and I might get lost."

He winked, and Amaris smiled.

"Let me lead the way, then. We should stay close to the Great Cave as the night brings out many ill-disposed creatures, but do not fear, where I lead you, there will be no danger."

Elrond nodded, and the two Elven lords disappeared between the trees.

* * *

Of course Erestor's arrival in Lothlórien had not gone unnoticed – nobody entered the Golden Wood without the sentinels and, first of all, Galadriel knowing it, but she respected his wish for solitude, and so nobody crossed the path of Elrond's advisor.

With one exception.

Erestor had heard the Elf’s approach some time since, and climbed the closest Mallorn tree. He felt absolutely no desire for company, all his senses were focused on Glorfindel, and he would tolerate no distraction. So he was now resting on a branch high up in the tree, hidden from anybody's view, and he hoped that whoever came this way would speed up his steps and leave soon.

Alas – apparently the Elf did not intend to leave. On the contrary: of all the trees in Lórien he had to choose the one Erestor was hiding in to make camp under. Erestor swallowed a curse and glared down at the stranger, of whom he saw nothing but a glimpse of golden hair and a blue-clad shoulder. The sun’s last rays bathed the small clearing in a mild, golden light, and seeing them reflect on the golden strands caused Erestor's heart to contract painfully. If only he knew what had happened to his beloved – was he well? Injured? Maybe his intuition had been wrong, and Glorfindel was not in Tíngel at all? What if he had been taken somewhere else?

And this specific time of the day... under normal circumstances, he and Glorfindel would sit on the balcony, Estorel on his lap, watching the sunset. Did Estorel miss him? Was Rabbit looking after him? Certainly. He would not have entrusted anyone but Rabbit with the care of his son. But Rabbit would not rub Estorel’s back till he fell asleep. The child found his Sia's touch calming, and when all else failed, Glorfindel would sing to him.

The baby moved, as if to remind Erestor of his presence, and Erestor gently stroked his belly. A small smile crept over his face at the thought of the new life growing, and he shook his head and forced back the tears which had begun to collect in his eyes. This was not the time to give in to sadness, he could not be distracted, he had to focus on finding his husband. Only a few hours rest, then he would leave early in the morning. Tíngel was now very close.

"Is this not a most splendid sunset – ah, if only I had parchment and colours to capture it! The light! The colours! Nature still provides the best entertainment. No dancers in any tavern, no matter how lovely, could ever be a match for this."

Erestor started, and quickly scanned the surroundings. Who was the Elf down there talking to? Had he brought a companion along? But no – this could not be, Erestor would have noticed. He retreated a little more into the leaves, his hand protectively on his belly.

"I am sure Glorfindel would appreciate this sight, though, truth be told, he would probably choose the dancers over the sunset. Such a peasant he is, do you not agree?"

Upon hearing Glorfindel's name, Erestor held his breath, and released it with an angry hiss during the rest of the speech. Who was this Elf? And how dare he speak of his husband in such a manner? And who was with him?

Below, Erestor could hear the rustle of leaves and the sound of a firestone, and sure enough, he soon smelled a fire, and a thin waft of smoke rose up.

"I see it is not easy to hold a conversation with you. Which is amazing – you see, all of Glorfindel's former wives used to talk so much that their mouths will have to be burnt on a separate pyre when they die, otherwise they would talk all through the funeral."

There could be no doubt now – the Elf was talking to him, and had known all along that Erestor was sitting here in this tree! To say that Erestor was surprised would have been an understatement, "thunderstruck" was more like it.

"So you are the silent type then. Very well, I can accept that. Or maybe you have given up on the world? I would understand it – the thought of having to endure dear Glorfindel's presence for a day is sheer torture to me, how much worse must it be to be married to him. I remember when…"

The stranger's memories were interrupted quite rudely by the sensation of a cold blade at his throat. He did not move, which was wise, otherwise the sharp metal would have cut deep into his flesh.

"Oh now do not be silly, Erestor. Take your knife away. We both know that you would never commit a kin slaying here in Lothlórien – or any other place. Sit down, share the meal with me, and we shall talk."

There was no fear in his voice, only amusement, and Erestor's confusion grew. His instincts told him that the Elf was no threat, and he was curious to hear what the stranger had to say. But still: nobody insulted his husband.

"Erestor – I am starving. If you intend to kill me, by all means, do it, but let me finish my meal first."

The blade was removed, and the Elf turned around, looking Erestor straight in the face.

The advisor shied back – he knew him, or at least he thought so. There was something familiar about this face, though he did not like the mocking smile at all.

"Finally! I was afraid I would have to die hungry. Help yourself, Master Erestor, wild geese – I prepared them myself, without question excellently, as with everything I do. But let me have a look at you first."

Erestor growled.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the other Elf grinned.

"My, but this growling… how absolutely erotic! I am not surprised in the least by Glorfindel's choice, now that I see you. A dark jewel, indeed."

Erestor winced to hear this cherished term of endearment from the other Elf, especially considering the smirk on his lips. The Elf wore very bright hunting gear, red and orange and yellow, and there were red ribbons woven into his braids. He bowed his head.

"My manners – of course, we have not been introduced yet. I am Nonfindel, the brighter and more beautiful, not to mention more talented and popular brother of your husband."

Erestor stared at Nonfindel with an expression of utter disbelief.

"Fin has a – brother? But that is not possible – how come I did not know this?"

Nonfindel rolled his eyes.

"Ah, his mind works in mysterious ways. We are not too close, you must know, but I appreciated that he invited me to your wedding. A gesture which should not be overvalued, though - he knew that I would never have attended. But that is not important now. I hear he has managed to get himself into trouble once again?"

"How can you know?"

"But my dear advisor – everybody knows! It is the talk of town! Lord Celeborn and Fin the Balrog slayer elf-napped! Please note that nothing happens in Lothlórien without me knowing it. I also know that you decided to take on the enemy's army alone and single-handedly save the Balrog-slayer-in-distress."

"This is none of your concern," Erestor snapped, and began to collect his belongings to stuff them in his saddle bag.

"Oh, but it is. I am entitled by birth to annoy Glorfindel, and I have no intention of sharing this right with some self-proclaimed evil overlord."

"Do as you please, but stay out of my way."

"This is your lucky day, Master Erestor – I will accompany you."

"Never!"

"That would be a long time, and I doubt Fin has so much time left. I will join you whether you like it or not, better get used to the notion early. And now sit down and eat, you must be starving. You must think of the little one you carry. While we are on the subject - do you wish for a male or a female? Little female Elflings are so much fun, they ask heaps of embarrassing questions! Would you mind if I put my head on your belly and listened to the heartbeat?"

"No! I mean - yes!" Erestor howled, and for the umpteenth time since he had met this annoying individual he felt the mad desire to strangle the Elf.

"Ah, do not be embarrassed, Erestor. It is only natural for future mothers to be emotionally unstable. Here, have some wine. You will feel better."

Erestor sank down in the grass and groaned. To think that some Elves considered an encounter with a cave troll a traumatic experience - obviously none of them had ever met Glorfindel's brother!

* * *

"With all due respect, my king, I do not think they like us very much," Mela said, while chewing on a piece of dried meat. The other Rivendell archers present nodded, and one muttered: "Some fight this is going to be – I will never know if the arrow in my back was fired by an Orc or one of our 'allies'!"

Gil-galad shook his head. He had spent the last twenty minutes listening to the complaints of his warriors and crumbling a piece of Lembas. He had rolled the soft center into small balls, and now he stuck them together, making little figures. Mela had watched this for quite a while, and he wondered if maybe the long stay in the Halls of Waiting had affected the King more than they had realised.

"They do not like me very much, my friends, and your lord would probably not win a popularity contest around here, either.Life here in Mirkwood is hard, there is no Ring of Power to protect this realm and the enemies are strong. You might think that their manners are questionable and their customs primitive, but if you consider the matter, they might be closer than us to nature and what it truly means to be an Elf."

Gil threw the little dough men into the fire, then he got up and went to the back of the tent. He pushed some clothes aside, revealing a case of Shire Brandy. He turned his head to Mela, and grinned.

"Maybe we should explore the less conventional forms of diplomacy, Mela. Come here, and help me with the bottles."

* * *

A loud, rough laughter, followed by another, lighter one, caught Elrond's attention, and he frowned.

"It sounds like the two parties have finally come to an agreement," Amaris said, and Elrond gave him a doubting look.

"You think? I would have said that was the sound of a very drunk High King."

Amaris smiled.

"Your hearing is excellent, Lord Elrond – but so is mine. The second laugh belonged to my dear nephew, so we can assume that King Gil-galad and Legolas are engaged in a drinking competition, whose outcome is open. But once they have got drunk and sick together, they will find it easier to fight side by side. It is one of those odd male bonding rites I never quite understood, but as long as it works, I shall not complain."

Elrond stopped, and looked into Amaris’ eyes. This Elf was older than he was, yet he looked younger than one of his sons. Maybe this youthful appearance gave him the courage to approach the subject which had been on his mind so often lately.

"How long, Amaris?"

The Wood Elf cocked an eyebrow, and his face took on a guarded expression.

"How long what, Lord Elrond?"

"How long have you loved him? Decades? Centuries? How long?"

Amaris did not move. He turned his head away, looking in the direction of the camp. Again, Gil-galad's laughter could be heard.

"If you follow this path you will find yourself in front of the main entrance, Lord Elrond. This part of the wood is well-guarded, so you need not fear an attack."

With that, he disappeared, so quickly that Elrond could not tell where he had gone. For a while, he just stood there, listening to the voices from the camp, then he began to walk back to the Great Cave.

'So the answer would be 'Millennia',' Elrond thought.

* * *

The soldier walked over to the table and set one of the tankards of ale down in front of his companion. Both lifted their vessels and downed almost half of the liquid, then wiped their mouths on their sleeves.

"So, you are looking for work, I understand," the soldier finally said, and the man opposite him nodded.

"Aye. Got a wife and a couple of little ones to feed. Thought I’d try my luck here. There's not much gold to be made in the country."

The guard looked him up and down. Tall and strong, and from the expression of his cold eyes, it was clear that this one was not to be messed with.

"You say you're a skilled weapon smith?"

Again, the other nodded.

"Aye – I'll make you swords which will cut out your enemy’s guts the very second the blade touches his skin."

Both laughed, and it was not a pleasant laughter. The guard leant over the table and lowered his voice.

"Friend, you've come to the right place. There are rumours that we're going to war, and a man of your skills can surely make a fortune here if he's clever."

The other also moved closer, and frowned.

"War? Forgive me, I haven't been here in a long time, so I don't know what is going on at the court, but why is there a war? Are we going for Gondor?"

"Ah, go away with Gondor," the guard snarled, "that's what I think about Gondor."

He spat on the floor, then took another sip of his drink.

"No, not Gondor. We will go for the Elves, that's what I heard."

The smith startled.

"Elves? You're joking."

The guard shook his head, and looked around fearfully.

"We must be careful – they can turn themselves invisible, and might be here somewhere."

"Invisible – I didn't know that. I had no idea any of the Old People were still here – haven't they left Middle Earth since the Ring was destroyed, or so I heard?"

"Most, yes, but some are still here. Mind you, I have never seen one myself, and I'm grateful. At night, they walk over the swamp with their lanterns, luring innocent wanderers to certain death. They bring illness to our cattle and steal babies. Trust me, it's all true! And now they want to come for our jewels!"

The smith's eyes narrowed.

"Jewels?"

"Yes – but my, you must have lived far out in the country if you haven't heard of the jewels."

"Oh, I know about them, alright, I just didn't know anybody would want to steal them."

The guard sighed.

"Oh yes, they want them. They know that, as long as we have them, we are protected. But don't worry, our king has sworn an oath that they will never leave our kingdom. And he's true to his word."

The men drank again, and sat for a moment in silence.

"So what do you think, should I go to the castle and ask for work?" the smith finally said. The guard nodded.

"Yes – ask for Tarmon, and tell him that I sent you. I'm Meron, captain of the guard. And what is your name, friend?"

The smith reached his dirty hand over the table.

"They call me Alandel the Skilled. Thank you for your help, my friend."

They shook hands, and while downing the last of his ale, Meron got up.

"I have to leave, my shift begins in ten minutes. If you need help, you know where to find me. Everybody knows me, and I know everybody. And I know where to find the things which make life more comfortable, too. I'll show you around all the brothels of Breon, my friend."

He winked, and Alandel returned the grin.

"I can't wait."

"Ah yes, nothing worse than an itch that can't be scratched, eh?" the guard snickered, then he headed for the door.

Alandel sat in front of his ale, lost in thoughts, when suddenly a stranger sat down beside him.

"What a pleasant surprise to meet you here, 'Alandel'. What a lovely name – it is an anagram, is it not? How clever. Try the wine, it is lovely. It is good to see a familiar face around here."

Alandel looked up, his eyes narrowed, and his fist closed tightly around the tankard.

"If we were not in a public place I would knock some sense into this gourd on your neck," he hissed, but the other didn't seem to be impressed.

"Oh yes, I am sure you would like to do that, and I could bet that you have dreamt of doing it for years already, but well, we cannot always have what we want."

"Do not be too sure of that," Alandel growled, and drank some more beer, "and while we are talking: where is the imbecile who is responsible for all this?"

"Now how am I supposed to know that - theoretically, he should be up in our chamber, but it is also possible that he is wandering over the swamps with his lantern."

Alandel groaned, but his companion just shrugged.

"Ignore it. Look, they have three jewels and an oath; trust me, they are in for all the trouble they deserve."

* * *

Legolas and Gil-galad lay flat on their backs in Amaris' tent, and each one had an Elf holding a bottle of Shire Brandy sitting behind their heads. Amaris held an hour glass, and explained the rules of the game to the Mirkwood and Rivendell Elves who were crowded around.

"This, valued guests, is an ancient tradition among our warriors, and we are honoured to share it with you. Once I turn the hour glass, the assisting warriors will begin to dribble Shire Brandy into the mouths of the contestants – dribble, dear friends, not pour, or you are out. Then the same procedure is repeated with Miruvor, Dwarven Grog and King Thranduil's 2942nd ager, over and over again."

Mela, who was watching the preparations, rubbed his chin and looked a little doubtful.

"Lord Amaris – what exactly is the point of this game?"

Amaris grinned and waved the bottle at the warrior.

"Last one alive wins."

Everybody howled with laughter, then both kneeling Elves uncorked their bottles, and everybody stared with baited breath at Amaris, who turned the hour glass in slow motion.

"One… two… three… GO!"

Under the deafening cheers of the audience Legolas and Gil opened their mouths, and immediately, the Elves behind them began to let the Shire Brandy dribble into their mouths. Then the Miruvor. The Dwarven Grog. 2942nd Ager.

And all over again.

By round three, Legolas' face, hair and tunic were drenched in various alcoholic liquids, and he began to sputter more than he drank, while Gil held himself remarkably well and even managed to joke between the rounds. When the Shire Brandy was passed the fourth time, Legolas turned onto his side and gasped. Immediately, the game was interrupted, and Amaris knelt down beside his nephew.

"Do you give up?" he asked, and Legolas, who had turned an interesting shade of green, nodded weakly. Amaris stroked his sticky hair, and smiled lovingly down at his young relative.

"You bore yourself well, Legolas, and did honour to your house."

Legolas groaned.

"I feel sick…"

Quickly, two of the Mirkwood Elves grabbed Legolas by the arms and dragged him outside, where he introduced the bramble bushes of Mirkwood to his good friends Shire Brandy, Miruvor, Dwarven Grog and 2942nd ager.

Meanwhile, Gil still lay on his back, grinning like a hyena and twiddling his thumbs.

"Oh come on, Amaris, this cannot have been all Mirkwood has to offer – I feel actually rather thirsty, and I wonder if anybody else is up for another round?"

Of course Amaris saw the challenge in Gil's eyes, and he just could not pass it up.

"Now that you mention it, Sire – my throat is rather dry as well. Very well – I am up for it. Just do me a favour and do not get sick all over the furs, they are my brother’s and I doubt he would be too pleased to have you vomit all over his belongings."

Gil waved him off.

"Oh, do not worry, Amaris. I will walk upright and sober out of this tent when you are already crawling on all fours to find a suitable bush."

Amaris sighed, then he took off his jerkin and tunic.

Gil swallowed hard. He had never seen Amaris in any other state but fully clothed, hair braided and nails polished. Now his former advisor's golden hair was loose save for two braids on each side of his head, his torso covered only by the intricate tattoos. He had spent the last ages playing Tablero with him, or discussing battle strategies, and now he seemed to be a completely different Elf – one Gil found fascinating, but at the same time shied away from.

Amaris lay down on his back, though not before giving Gil a predatory smile.

"We shall see whose head will be buried in the bushes, Sire."

This time Mela held the hour glass, and everybody stared at the two contestants. For a short moment, Gil thought about how Elrond would probably not approve of the Noldor's High King’s participation in silly drinking games with Amaris of Mirkwood, and he also thought what a shame it was that Elrond was missing all this fun, but then Mela shouted "Go!" and he had to concentrate on the task at hand.

The Mirkwood Elf was clearly at an advantage – not only had he drunk less than Gil when the contest began, he also showed an amazing resistance to the intoxicating effects of alcohol, and when Gil-galad's breathing became laboured during round 3, he was still joking and teasing his opponent.

Had Gil-galad been listening to his stomach, he would have given up, but neither his stubborn head nor his proud heart allowed him to give in. Oh no, he would not leave victory to Amaris! The thought of seeing a triumphant smile on those pale lips made him cringe more than the toxic mixture of potent beverages in his gut, and so he kept on as best he could.

By round 4, Amaris began to pity Gil-galad, and thinking that a dead king would be of little use when riding to battle, he raised his hand and signalled the two Elves who held the bottles to stop. Immediately, they took the bottles away, and Gil, soaked in alcohol, blinked in the soft light of the candles.

"I am sorry to interrupt this contest, Sire – but the hour is late already, and we have a long day ahead of us. So I hope you will forgive me and agree that we are even in this battle."

Gil, who had only understood half the words Amaris had said, nodded weakly, but made no attempt to get up.

Amaris turned to the warriors.

"We should rest. I will care for the King."

The Rivendell Elves hesitated a moment, but when Mela signalled them to leave the tent, they obeyed. Soon, Amaris and Gil were alone.

"A lovely sight you are, Sire, I wish we had an artist here to paint this scene, for I am sure that you will deny all knowledge of this incident come the morrow. This aside, it would make a nice present for Thranduil."

Gil didn't move, so Amaris went to the back of the tent and got a bucket of water he had placed there to wash himself in the morning. He thought about getting a piece of cloth as well, but then he changed his mind, and tipped half the bucket's contents over Gil, who yelped, sputtered and shook his wet hair like a dog come in from the rain.

"What the…" he gasped, but Amaris, ever an Elf to finish the things he started, poured the rest of the water over the already drenched King, set the bucket aside and waited for Gil to come to his senses again.

Gil-galad wiped his eyes and spat out water, then he coughed and shook his head again.

"Are you feeling better, Sire? Or shall I call for more water?"

Gil glared at Amaris with bloodshot eyes.

"Sleep seems to be more in order than water. Come, let me help you up, Sire."

Amaris hooked his arms under Gil's and tried to help him up, but truth be told, he was rather drunk as well, and so they both ended up in a heap on the ground. Amaris grumbled, but Gil found the situation hilarious and began to giggle.

"I have not had this much fun in ages," he grinned, and patted Amaris, who lay half over him, on the back.

"There you are right," Amaris admitted, and began to giggle as well, "I remember when I first played this game with Thranduil and we ended up fighting in the mud. Nana said she would drown us in the pond, but ada only laughed."

Gil looked up, still a smile on his face.

"Oropher laughed? You mean – he was able to manage a facial expression other that his usual impersonation of a lemon?"

Amaris returned the smile.

"Oh, you only knew my father from the battlefield, Sire, but we had a lot of fun. He had a great sense of humour."

"What a pity he lost it."

"Well, Sire, when you see your people starve and your warriors die, the sense of humour is usually the first thing you lose. Do not hold it against him. He was a good father, good king and great warrior."

The king sighed.

"I am sorry, Amaris. It was not my intention to insult your ada. I held him in high regard, higher than he held me. He was proud, wise and courageous, and I did not choose you of all Elves as my advisor without a reason – you are truly a son of your father."

Amaris cocked his head, and looked disappointed.

"I am hurt. Here I am, believing that I became your advisor because of my talent for drinking a bottle of Shire Brandy without collapsing, and now I learn that you only chose me because I was proud, wise and courageous. I doubt I will ever get over this."

He theatrically dropped his head, and Gil patted his back.

"Poor Amaris, your life is one big disappointment."

The candles had burned down, and through his drunkenness, Amaris suddenly realised that he was here in the dark, lying atop of Gil-galad, separated from him by nothing but his breeches. Never had he been this close to the king, a very wet king, admittedly, who smelled like a brewery, but Gil's words hit home. Amaris looked up, right in Gil-galad's eyes.

"Indeed, Sire. It is."

There was no jest in his voice, and Gil noticed. Was Amaris serious? But he had all he wanted – why was he disappointed? Suddenly, Gil became very much aware of how close Amaris was, felt the heavy weight and the heat of his body. He caught the expression in Amaris’ eyes, unguarded for just a moment, but in that moment Gil-galad realized what should have been obvious to him for millennia already. This realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning. He reached out to stroke Amaris' cheek, but the Mirkwood Elf evaded his touch.

"Do not touch me, Sire. I could not bear it."

Gil heard the words, spoken in a toneless voice, almost a whisper, but he could not help it, he had to touch. He buried his hands in Amaris' hair.

"Who are you," he asked, "who are you really? I feel I do not know you at all, Amaris."

There was no answer, only a helpless expression on Amaris' face. Gil tightened his hold and drew Amaris' head down, the Mirkwood Elf's resistance weakening, until finally, he gave in, and allowed the king to kiss him.

Had Gandalf started one of his famous fireworks this very moment, Gil would not have noticed. How incredibly good this felt and tasted! He wanted more, more, more, and it would never be enough. He rolled Amaris onto his back, and the way he moved in his arms was just perfect.

Amaris, less drunk and more sensible than Gil, knew very well that this was a mistake of epic dimensions, but he had longed to do and feel this for so many years, he did not have the strength to pull away. He wished he could have slipped under Gil's skin to be even closer to him, but he would take whatever he was given; who knew if he would ever have another chance to touch him?

The king released Amaris for some much-needed breathing, and began to kiss his way down the Wood Elf's chest, following the patterns and runes with his tongue, gently biting a nipple. Every touch of his lips and tongue on Amaris' skin felt like fire, but he wanted to burn, had longed for it. So he arched into Gil's touch, fingers clawing at his back, and then he pulled him up by his hair.

"I want to see you, and I want you to see me, because you have never looked at me. Do it now, Gil-galad," he whispered, and Gil obeyed. He trapped Amaris' head between his large hands, and his eyes took in every expression, ever crease, every shadow on Amaris' face.

"You are right - I have never seen you. But I see you now."

He kissed Amaris again, this time slowly, lovingly, the calloused tips of his fingers stroking the Wood Elf's ears, which caused Amaris to moan - a most interesting sound, or so Gil thought. He ran his hands over his former advisor's skin, marvelling at its softness and warmth, then he buried his face in Amaris' neck and gently nibbled it.

The strong body underneath him moved, never losing contact, fingers dug deep in his back. He heard how Amaris whispered his name, then the Wood Elf stilled, arched and collapsed back on the ground, eyes closed, face flushed. Gil continued to stroke his cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Do all traditional drinking games in Mirkwood end like this?" Gil finally asked, and Amaris, eyes still closed, shook his head.

"No, Sire. Not all. Just some."

"Amaris - I do not understand what happened here."

"I know, Sire. It does not matter - I do."

"I thought so."

"We should discuss this some other time, Sire."

"Elrond will not like this."

"No, Sire."

Gil circled Amaris' left nipple with his middle finger, which made the other Elf shudder again.

"Amaris?"

"Yes, Sire?"

"All things considered, I think you can call me Gil now."

* * *

"He is sleeping".

Eledwen and Elfaël, who were sitting in front of the fire, looked up, and Elcallon went over to the fireplace. He bent down to arrange the cushions, then he sat down, too, and Eledwen handed him a cup of mulled wine. As always when they were here, in the privacy of their rooms, they used their own language, even if they didn't know all the words. It gave them a feeling of belonging and home.

"He had bad dreams?"

Elcallon nodded and reached for the poker, arranging some of the logs in the fire. The flames blazed up and bathed the three Elves in a warm, golden light.

"What do you thinks, Elcallon?" Eledwen asked, reaching out to rest her hand on his arm.

"I do not know. He is like us. Now he knows we are like him. The ears, you know."

He pushed a strand of light brown hair aside and ran a finger over his ear.

"He touched it. Now he knows. He is confused."

Elcallon continued to stare into the fire. He had been in a state of confusion ever since Celeborn had been brought there, though, of course, he didn't know his name, or who he was. It was the first time he had seen another of their kind, and as they had always been told that they were the last of their people, Elcallon had begun to wonder if this really was the truth.

"So there are more like us?" Elfaël asked anxiously.

Elcallon sighed, his attention now focussing on his two companions.

"There is one more like us. I do not know if there are others. I do not know everything."

"But you are the oldest. You remember. We do not."

Elcallon stroked Eledwen's hand.

"I remember little. I was a child, too."

Elfaël stretched out, resting his head on Elcallon's thigh.

"Oh please, tell us again. What was it like?"

Elcallon sighed. He had told this story so many times, but Elfaël never got tired of listening to it. He was tired, but seeing the happy shine in the younger one's eyes, he did not have the heart to deny him this pleasure.

"Fine, I will. Then we go to bed."

Both Elves nodded, and Elcallon began his tale.

"We had a house. And horses. And cows. There was my father and my mother. They were called Ata and Nanna."

"Oh, I like these names, they sound so funny," Eledwen giggled, but Elfaël glared at her, fearing that Elcallon might not finish his story if she interrupted him. But the older Elf ignored her.

"I had a brother. He was small and always cried. We played with the dogs. All day long we were running through the forest. Nanna made cookies and we shared them. There were many like us, many more, males and females and children. Everybody was friendly."

"Tell us about your brother," Eledwen begged, because this part of the story was her favourite, it always made her a little teary-eyed.

Elcallon sighed, but decided to humour her.

"One day monsters came and killed everybody. They made a fire, and Ata and Nanna hid me and my brother in a big basket. We heard a lot of screaming. Then came soldiers and found us. We were riding on their horses. They brought us to fat men who looked at us, and we slept in a tent. And then there was a market. They took my brother away. He was very brave and did not cry. And we came here."

"I cannot remember any of this," Elfaël sighed.

"You were too young. Both of you were too young. But I remember. Everything."

Which was a lie - Elcallon did not remember everything, because he, too, had been very young. But the one thing he remembered as if it had been yesterday was the way his little brother had looked at him when they dragged him away. He would never forget it, as long as he lived. Thousands of years had passed since then, but to Elcallon, it had only been yesterday.

"I am sorry. I did not want you to be sad," Elfaël murmured.

"Do not worry, it is nothing. It is long over."

But this, again, was a lie, because ever since Celeborn had been brought here, there was one thought repeated over and over again in Elcallon’s mind: if there was one other Elf, there might be more. Maybe they hadn't been told the truth? Maybe the books were not fairytales after all?

And if there were more of his kind, there might be a chance that his brother lived, too.

Elcallon got up and walked over to the balcony overlooking the large garden. It was framed by walls and towers, but lovely; in summer, a sea of flowers filled their rooms with their sweet smell.

Yes, maybe there were others like him. And maybe Celandir was still out there, too, waiting for him, somewhere. If he was, Elcallon had to find him. He remembered little of his childhood, but he remembered how frightened his father had looked when he had hidden him and his brother in the baskets, and how Ata had made him promise to look after Celandir, no matter what happened.

And Elcallon had every intention of keeping this promise.

* * *

Even Firinwë felt uncomfortable when she was summoned to appear in front of Finwë, and she was certainly not of faint heart. The Dark Lord sat on his throne, head propped on his fist, and he looked decidedly annoyed.

"You asked to see me, my lord?"

"No. I demanded. I do not ask. Your pet is wandering around the palace. Did we not have an agreement that he should be with you at all times?" he growled, and she shuffled her feet.

"I am most sorry, my lord. I have no idea how this could have happened, but I can assure you that he will not leave his room without me again."

"Should my guards find him again anywhere outside your chambers, I will have him shot and fed to the crows. We are preparing for war, Firinwë, and I shall not jeopardise our chances by having a pathetic First Age Elf shuffle along the corridors. Have I made myself clear?"

"Very clear, my lord."

"Good. Now go. War will soon be upon us, prepare yourself."

Firinwë swallowed hard.

"War, my lord?"

Finwë rolled his eyes.

"One would scarcely believe that you are of my blood - of course there will be war. What did you think? That Galadriel, Elrond and Thranduil send a message inviting us to take over their realms? 'Dear Lady Firinwë, Rivendell is yours, please do not forget to water the tulips twice a week?' They have gathered an army, lead by Gil-galad, and hope to defeat us here in Tíngel."

He leant back, smiling at Firinwë, whose courage had begun to evaporate with the dawning realisation of exactly what she had gotten herself into here.

"But you, my dear, will help me to take what is rightfully mine, and you shall be rewarded with everything you always wished for. Jewels, robes, Lothlórien, Balrog Slayers, pretty ponies. However..." he smiled, steepling his fingers, "should you toy with the thought of betraying me..."

"I have no intention of betraying you."

"No? What a pity. You are of my kin, I had hoped you had it in your blood. Well, there is still hope."

On her way out, Firinwë halted and turned around.

"You said I could have all I wished for - so where is Celeborn? You promised not to harm him, but I have not seen him for many days."

"But my dear Firinwë - now you are really hurting my feelings. I promised you that no harm would befall him, and indeed - he shall not hear or see any evil as long as I hold my protecting hand over him. I only have his best interests in mind."

Secretly Firinwë doubted that, but this was not the moment for an argument. The most important thing now was to talk to Glorfindel and show him once and for all who wore the breeches n this marriage.

* * *

"I have no explanation, my lord. When I came to see how he fared, I found him like this."

Celeron the healer pointed at Elrohir, who slept peacefully, his eyes half closed and clouded with reverie. Elladan knelt down by his brother, scrutinising him with the eyes of a healer. Carefully he ran a finger over the place where only yesterday an angry, deep wound had been. Now there was not even the slightest indication that Elrohir had ever been injured at all. No bruise. No scar. Nothing.

"How can this be? I thought his condition was improving, though I was worried about the long-term effects of the Orc poison, but this – I have never seen anything like it in my life. And I cannot recall that my ada ever mentioned a similar incident."

Their conversation, though held with lowered voices, finally woke Elrohir up, and the young Elf stretched his limbs, rolled onto his back and looked up at Celeron and Elladan, gracing both with a wide smile.

"Good morning! Are you here to serve me breakfast?" he grinned, while both Celeron and Elladan stared at him in disbelief. With a last yawn, Elrohir sat up, rolling his shoulders.

"Elrohir! How are you feeling? What has happened?"

Elrohir looked at his twin and frowned.

"Happened? What do you mean?"

He looked around, and seeing that he was in the Healing House, he scratched his head.

"This is odd, what am I doing here? And where are my clothes?"

"I will send for your clothes right away, brother. You were injured, do you not remember?"

Elrohir shook his head, clearly confused.

"Injured? Me? But I never felt better in my life!"

He looked down at his body, poked his stomach and wriggled his toes.

"See? Everything is still attached and working," he grinned, and Elladan embraced him with a bear crush. He had to touch him. Just seeing that his brother was alive and obviously healed would not have been enough to make him actually believe it.

"We were so worried, Elrohir – I do not know how this miracle happened, but I am grateful beyond words!"

Elrohir returned the hug. His brother was upset, and he had no idea why.

"Is he injured, too?" he asked, pointing at the bed in the next room, where a lean figure lay, half covered with a blanket.

"It is nothing, young lord," Celeron hastily explained, his eyes anxiously wandering between his two patients, "just a minor thing, no need to worry."

"I would not put it like that, Celeron – from all we know, this Elf saved the lives of Rabbit, Bramble and Eldanar."

Slowly it dawned on Elrohir that he had missed something. The Healing House, his worried and upset brother... and somebody had attacked Rabbit and the Elflings? Who would do such a thing? And why?

He slipped off the bed, wrapping the blanket around his middle, then walked into the other room. Celeron followed him and attempted to hold him back.

"Young lord – I would advise you to lie down again and rest. We do not know who… what… this is, and before we know that there is no danger, you had better not approach it."

Elrohir gave Celeron a stern look.

"Do not be ridiculous, Healer. If he saved Rabbit and the Elflings, he certainly would not harm me."

With that, he continued on his way, and soon stood beside the Elf who lay on his side, his back turned towards Elrohir, the Healer and Elladan, who had followed them.

Elrohir sniffed.

"Now what is this?" he murmured to himself, "I know this scent."

He sniffed again, and identified nutmeg.

The Elf on the bed stirred, and slowly turned around to face Elrohir. Black, uncombed hair, pale skin, and now a pair of dark brown eyes looking at Elrohir. The two Elves stared at each other for a long time without moving or saying a word.

"Elrohir? Is anything amiss? Elrohir? Please, speak to me - are you not feeling well?"

Elladan stepped to his brother, who looked at him in total shock. The Elf on the bed said nothing, just gazed at Elrohir, not even noticing Elladan and the healer.

"Come, rest again, brother, you are not healed yet..."

Elrohir shied back, and luckily Elladan stood behind him for support, because Elrohir's legs almost gave way when the injured Elf smiled dreamily up at him.

"You know him? Do you know who he is?" Elladan asked, trying to look at Elrohir's face, but his younger brother seemed unable to take his eyes off the stranger. Finally, Elrohir turned around, looking at Elladan with the greatest confusion.

"Can you not see, Elladan?"

He pointed at the stranger and shook his head.

"It is Námo, Elladan - we have the Vala of Death lying in our Healing House!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

"How does my brother fare, Master Celeron?"

Elladan sanded the scroll he had just been writing on and put it aside to dry. In front of him, a pile of messages waited to be answered, and these were only the most important ones. Elladan had felt less scared facing Orcs than he felt facing this mountain of paperwork, and he secretly wondered how his ada managed to do all this and much more without losing his mind.

The healer who stood in front of Lord Elrond's desk, now occupied by Elladan, shrugged.

"Lord Elrohir's condition is stable. I dare say his body has fully recovered."

"And his mind?"

Celeron made a vague gesture with his hand.

"He still demands to be released and insists that the Plains Elf is Lord Námo. He is obsessed with this idea, my lord. He used very rude language and trashed his chamber last night, so we have taken out all furniture and padded the room so he may not hurt himself."

"Thank you, Celeron. And how is the Plains Elf doing?"

"As far as one can tell with a creature like this – fine. I have locked him up so he will not escape before you have had a chance to interrogate him and decide what should be done with him."

Elladan cocked an eyebrow.

"You have locked him up? Since when do we lock our visitors up, Celeron?"

The healer, beginning to feel uncomfortable under Elladan's stern look, bowed his head.

"It was only for his own good, my lord. As he is a foreigner here, I feared he might get lost. Rabbit has demanded to see him, but of course I did not allow it without consulting you first."

"Is there any reason why Rabbit should not see a member of his tribe?"

"I thought you would…"

"Celeron."

Elladan got up and leant over the desk, resting his weight on his hands. His already broad shoulders looked even wider, and to Celeron it seemed as if the young lord had just grown in height.

"Let me sum this up. You have locked up the Elf who saved the lives of Rabbit, Bramble and my son. And you keep Rabbit from seeing him. I would suggest, Celeron, that you stop thinking for me, because despite contradictory rumours, I am very well able to think for myself. I do not have my head simply because I do not wish to wear my circlet as a necklace. Now go and unlock the Healing House, our guest is free to roam wherever he wishes! And make sure Rabbit can see him. Is this understood?"

"Perfectly, my lord," Celeron hastily answered. He bowed deeply and hurried out of the door. By the Valar – Elladan's eyebrows were almost as scary as Lord Elrond's!

"Is uncle Elrohir ill?" a tiny voice piped up from under the desk, and when Elladan knelt down, he found Eldanar hidden underneath, his toy dragon Tathar under his arm.

"What are you doing here, penneth? Are you not supposed to attend your riding lessons?"

Eldanar tried to look guilty, but he failed.

"I am rather here with you. This aside I felled down the pony yesterday, and now my bum hurts."

Elladan had to hide a smile.

"Very well then, but come here, I do not wish my son to crawl under the table like a mouse."

Eldanar quickly climbed onto Elladan's lap, snuggled up to his adoptive father and smiled.

"Is uncle Elrohir gaga?" he suddenly asked.

Elladan stared at him in outrage. "'Gaga'? Now what kind of language is that?"

"One of the chamber maids said that uncle Elrohir is gaga because he thinks he can see the Valar. Another said she had an aunt who used to see tiny pink Balrogs when she had drunk too much Miruvor, and that was the same."

Elladan made a mental note to have a long talk with the chamber maids, but for now, he tried to explain the situation to the child.

"Your uncle Elrohir has been badly wounded, and will take a long time to recover. We all must be very patient with him."

"But he will not die?" the child asked, and Elladan shook his head firmly.

"No, certainly not, penneth."

"And ada Orophin? Ada Orophin will not die either?"

Elladan looked down at the child whose face showed too much fear for one so young, and he hugged his son close to him.

"No, ada Orophin will not die, either. He will soon return to us and read you bed-time stories."

"Will he read you bed-time stories, too?"

"I hope so," Elladan answered, thinking of "Mirkwood Love Secrets", a book which indeed made most interesting bed-time reading.

Eldanar was happy with this information, and began to suck his thumb. Elladan rested his chin on the child's head and rocked him gently. He felt a mad desire to grab all the scrolls and throw them on the fire, saddle his horse and ride after Orophin. In his mind, he had played through hundreds of worst-case scenarios, had imagined his husband injured and alone. Would it always be like this, once he was lord of Rivendell? Would he sit here, writing lengthy diplomatic notes when a brief "Forget it!" would have been sufficient? Would he lie awake at night, sick with worry for Orophin?

Of course, he could beg Orophin not to go on patrols anymore, to stay here, with him and Eldanar. But what kind of life would that be for his husband? He was one of the Galadhrim, having to stay here all the time would be like captivity for him. He could not demand this of his husband; he had no right to keep Orophin in a cage, even if the cage was golden and lined with velvet.

"Ada Elladan - how do you know that uncle Elrohir has not really seen a Vala?"

Eldanar had stopped sucking on his thumb and looked now up to his father expectantly.

"Because we cannot see the Valar, Eldanar. They are spirits - they do not have bodies like you or I."

"But when Gil-galad the Non-pumpkin and ada Orophin came to live here, you saw a Vala, too. Are you now gaga, too?"

"Eldanar! Who told you this?"

"The chamber maids. They said Lord Námo was here and grand-ada Celeborn took him for a ride. Why did grand-ada Celeborn ride with Lord Námo? Do the Valar not have their own horses?"

Elladan decided to consult the law books on whether spanking of chamber maids was still allowed, then he returned his attention to his son.

"It is true, Eldanar. We did see Lord Námo, but none of us can really remember what he looked like. It was a vision, that is something like a dream. Have you had dreams which you only remembered vaguely in the morning?"

Eldanar nodded.

"See, and that was the same thing."

The Elfling released his thumb again, and wiped it on Elladan's tunic.

"But ada - if you cannot remember what Lord Námo looked like, how do you know that the Elf uncle Elrohir saw was not Lord Námo? Maybe he can remember. Have you asked him? Or I can ask him if you are too busy."

Eldanar gave his son a thoughtful look, considered the matter, then smiled.

"You are a very wise Elfling, Eldanar. I think you are right - I shall now go and see uncle Elrohir and ask him what he has seen. And you will go to the kitchen and tell the cook that he shall give you fresh cookies and a glass of milk"

"Thank you, ada!" Eldanar cheered, pressing a wet, noisy kiss on Elladan's cheek and sliding down his leg to land on the floor. He sped out of the door, dragging Tathar behind him.

And for the umpteenth time Elladan thanked the Valar for sending this child his way.

* * *

A changeling - this was the only explanation Erestor had. Goblins must have snatched Glorfindel's true brother out of his cradle when he had been a wee Elfling, and replaced the infant with - him.

It was difficult to decide what grated more on Erestor's nerves: Nonfindel's singing or the time between two tunes he filled with talking. And my, could he talk! It was a wonder he even took the time to breathe in-between tales! By now, Erestor was fully informed on the complete family history of Glorfindel, knew all the flaws and failures of his husband's former wives and had heard some juicy gossip regarding Celeborn's love life on top of it. He knew that Nonfindel's real name was Lórindol and the strange nickname went back to an incident in the other Elf's childhood, involving Glorfindel, scissors and Nonfindel's braids. Or the later lack thereof.

The advisor tried his best to ignore the chattering Elf, but it was difficult. More than once he had turned around to cut Nonfindel off with a sharp word, but every time, the other Elf had made a gesture or cocked his head in a way which reminded Erestor of his beloved, and the words would not come out.

The closer the two got to Tíngel, the heavier Erestor's heart grew. Deep inside he knew that Glorfindel was still alive, but he also felt that something terrible had happened. He was miserable, sad, afraid and angry, and the Elfling he carried picked up on his mood and became restless, moving and kicking and making the ride even more exhausting.

Glorfindel's nana, however, had not raised any fools. Nonfindel was very well aware of Erestor's dark thoughts, so he tried his best to cheer the advisor up. It was better for Erestor to be grumpy with him than get lost in possibly unfounded fears.

He was pleasantly surprised by his brother's choice. Nonfindel had disliked each and every one of Glorfindel's former wives with a passion. Though the two brothers were as different as two Elves could possibly be and had spent the last millennia arguing, he loved Glorfindel dearly. When news had reached his ears that Fin had remarried, Nonfindel had placed bets on the date when the failure of the marriage would be announced, all the more confidently after he had heard that the chosen one was a male. He had even doubled the bet when he learned that the male in question was Lord Elrond's boring, humourless and stern chief advisor.

Nonfindel had lost the bet, and for once, he did not complain. Erestor was not half as boring as he had feared, and it was obvious that the advisor loved Glorfindel very much. Odd rumours had reached his ears regarding the nature of the relationship, and the birth of Glorfindel's son, Estorel, had given cause for many heated discussions in Lothlórien. Many Elves did not look favourably on Erestor, whom they considered a freak of nature. Some had even gone as far as declaring that such a creature had no right to sail west and "defile" the Undying Lands. As a consequence, quite a few Galadhrim had found themselves on lavatory duty for a decade or two, for the lady of the Golden Wood did not suffer ignorant fools lightly.

Nonfindel did not think Erestor a freak– he rather considered the other Elf blessed with a special gift. What could be more precious than the ability to give life? The main problem, so Nonfindel mused, was probably the scary thought that a male could carry an Elfling. But strictly speaking Erestor was not a male, though he appeared so. He was not female, either. He was of a third kind. Eru in his wisdom had certainly known what he was doing in making the Plains Elves the way they were – and who was he to argue with the gods?

"We are now leaving Lothlórien, Erestor. Riding will be difficult, so we need to lead our horses into the wood and walk. If you smell an Orc, climb the next tree."

Erestor nodded and got off his horse, taking the reins. He entered the dark forest, Nonfindel following closely.

It was like stepping from light into darkness, and Erestor stopped. Only brief moments ago, they had ridden through the sun-lit, merry greens of Lothlórien; now they found themselves surrounded by darkness. The temperature had dropped significantly and the silence had become unnerving. A gloomy atmosphere was all around them, and even Nonfindel ceased his chatter. At any other time, Erestor would have been grateful for the silence, but now he almost longed for the comfort of the other's voice.

So this was the place where Orophin had suffered so long and finally died. Erestor shivered at the thought, all his instincts told him to hide, seek shelter, for this was a place of many dangers. But it was also the place where Glorfindel was, and for him, Erestor would have gone to Mordor and back. He had sworn that he would stand by Glorfindel's side, be it in good times or bad.

These were bad times indeed. So he took a deep breath and continued on his way.

* * *  
It was the same procedure as usual, nothing had changed during the last millennia. Nothing but the faces of the guards involved.

First the king's men combed through the woods to make sure no intruder was hiding behind a tree or in a bush. Then the three Elves would slip on their cloaks, the hoods drawn down over their faces. Elcallon understood why these precautions were necessary. Considering the crimes the Elves had committed, it was understandable that he and his friends needed protection from the anger of the people of Breon. Elcallon was grateful that the royal family had always looked after them so well, for where else would they have found refuge? They were the last of their kind, after all.

Or so he had thought.

While mounting the horse which was held by one of the guards, his thoughts wandered to the Elf whom they had left behind in their chambers. Elcallon would have loved to take the nameless new brother along on this ride, but he feared this might have upset the injured Elf, and now, riding slowly down the usual path to the river, he enjoyed the moments of solitude. Elcallon loved the trees, the fresh air, the earth – he would have given anything if he had once, just once, been allowed to see what the country looked like beyond the invisible border he was not allowed to cross. But he understood, and he had accepted this life.

Countless times he had ridden this way, but he always found something new to see and hear. After half an hour's ride, he reached the river, and sat down under a tree. It was his favourite place: sheltered from possible rain showers, shady in summer, and he could watch the water flow by. Sometimes he would feed the geese and ducks, and at times, he could see women washing their laundry in the cold water. He heard their laughter and their joking, and had to smile. If only they could forgive him – after all, neither he nor his friends had done anything wrong.

"Elcallon – I'm glad that I find you here."

The Elf looked up and saw the face of Toban, the youngest son of the king. His face brightened, for he liked the young one, who had become his main source of information on the world outside.

The lad flopped down beside Elcallon, and tried to calm his breathing – he had obviously run.

"You look worried, friend," the Elf remarked, and really, the youngster, usually so carefree, now looked rather pale, and every so often, he would turn around as if to check whether somebody was approaching.

"I'm worried, that's true."

Toban gave Elcallon a sidelong glance, and the Elf now began to feel worried himself.

"What has happened? Have you had an argument with your father again?"

Toban shook his head.

"No. Yes. Listen, Elcallon – there is something I need to tell you. It's not easy to do so, I've thought about it long and hard, and it might be the wrong thing to do, but…"

He broke off, fiddling nervously with his belt. Elcallon put his hand on the youngster's shoulder.

"Do not be afraid. We are friends – whatever it is that you must tell me, I will listen."

Toban took a deep breath.

"It's about you. And your friends. And the new Elf."

Elcallon grew more alert. Did Toban know something about his charge?

"Do you know him? Can you tell me where he comes from?"

Again, the youngster looked around anxiously to be sure nobody was eavesdropping. He continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper.

"I do not know where he comes from or who he is. He was brought here one night by servants of a lord my father has dealings with."

"So he is a refugee then, like us?"

The youngster shook his head.

"No. I suppose he was kidnapped. All I know for sure is that he was the price my father demanded for sending warriors to the lord's support. We are preparing for war, you must know."

"A price? A war? Who are we fighting? I do not understand this."

Toban moved even closer, his mouth next to Elcallon's ear.

"We are going to fight your people."

For a moment there was total silence, and the Elf stared at the young man in utter disbelief.

"Our people? But – we have no people! We are the last ones! Me, the nameless Elf, Elfaël and Eledwen, and the young one she is carrying. There are no others!"

"Oh yes, there are," Toban whispered, "thousands of your people. Please believe me, you know I'm your friend, I would never lie to you or cause you pain."

Elcallan was thunderstruck. He heard the words, but they did not make sense, and though he saw that the young one was honest, his mind refused to believe what he had just heard.

"You should not joke about such things. Yes, I know that my people have let yours down, that they were cowards and left you alone in battle, but I never caused you any harm. Please do not be so cruel."

Toban dug his fingers painfully deep into the Elf's arm.

"I'm not joking. Please, you must believe me. Your people are no cowards. It was our people who let yours down!"

"What?"

"Breon promised to stand by the side of Lothlórien, many, many years ago. But our king broke this promise."

"How can you say such a thing?" Elcallan raked his hair with his fingers. "I have read all the books in the library, Toban. I know the tales of the battles by heart. I know how the mortals in their anger chased all Elves away from here, over the sea, and nobody ever heard of them again. I know…"

"You don't know anything!" Toban cried, jumping up and closing his hands into fists. "Nothing! Yes, you've read the books – but these books were written for you, for you only! The kings of old employed dozens of scribes whose sole purpose it was to invent history for you!"

The young man grabbed Elcallan by his shoulders and shook him hard.

"You've been lied to, Elcallan. You are not the last of your kin. I have seen others like you, males and females and children. The only reason you are kept here is because my father and all the kings before him thought that having you here would protect them from bad luck."

He shook the Elf again, as if to wake him up.

"Elcallan, can't you see? You are nothing but a good-luck-charm!"

Elcallan closed his eyes and tried to process the information. Was it possible? Had they been deceived all these years? Were there really – others?

"I – please understand that it is very difficult for me to believe..." he stuttered.

"I know. I found it hard to believe, too, when I learned about it. But it is true. A horrible crime has been committed against you and your friends, Elcallan. But please don't hold it against the people of Breon – they don't know. They think you are gemstones, brought here from a foreign land ages ago."

"Gemstones?"

"Yes – they call you the Three Jewels."

Elcallan's view moved over to the place where Elfaël and Eledwen sat, holding each other and looking at the river. If the young one told the truth, they had been prisoners all their lives, little more than well-kept pets.

"Why are you telling me now, Toban?"

The young man fiddled with his belt again.

"They say the Elves are leaving Middle-earth. The tale goes that, once this last war is over, they will all sail away in ships, and for those left behind, there will be no way to follow them. I … I didn't want you to stay behind. You're my friend, I want you to be happy."

Elfaël and Eledwen were now chasing each other, laughing. Elfaël made sure he did not run too fast, for Eledwen was heavy with her child. It suddenly dawned on Elcallan that this child would be born into a prison, would never be free. Never see the world outside. A great longing came over him, to see the world, see woods and rivers and mountains, to reach the stars, go to the end of the world and beyond. To meet his people. And maybe – maybe his brother Celandir was still alive, too?

Elcallon got up; he had come to a decision.

"I believe you, Toban. And I thank you, my friend. No, I do not wish to stay behind, and I do not wish the child of Elfaël and Eledwen to be born into captivity. What do you suggest?"

Toban gave the Elf a broad grin.

"I have a plan. It's going to be dangerous, mind you, but I've considered everything. Now listen…"

* * *  
Glorfindel was glad when Firinwë finally left the chamber. The healer had come to examine him and had ordered him back to bed, insisting that his healing would be delayed if he wandered around. Fin had obeyed, though he felt fine – not perfect, his head still hurt, but he saw no need to rest any longer.

Fin wondered whether it was his injury which made his head hurt or his memory loss. Every day, his wife would tell him of their life, and with every tale he hoped he would remember. It never happened. She could have read him a story out of a Nana Goose book with the same effect. It was a tale, a story, a legend – but not a piece of his life.

So he was Glorfindel of Tíngel, seneschal of the mighty lord Finwë, much admired and feared by everybody. His deeds were legendary, he had slain a Balrog. His worst enemy was Erestor, an assassin in the service of Lord Elrond, who had tried for millennia to bring Tíngel under his power, so far without success.

"Erestor is the most dangerous Elf on Arda," his wife had explained, "a skilled warrior, double-tongued and ruthless. He knows neither honour nor loyalty; all he cares about are gold and gems. Many centuries ago, he killed our beloved son… oh, I cannot speak of this any longer, my heart will surely break!"

She had cried, and Glorfindel had felt like a heartless monster – how could he not remember that his son had been murdered? A little awkwardly, he had put his arm around Firinwë, trying to comfort her.

"Do not cry, beloved – I may not remember anything, but I know that this murder will not go unpunished. I promise you that I will track Erestor down, and I will have his head for this!"

Firinwë had snuggled up to him, obviously comforted by his words, and had sniffled one last time into her tiny handkerchief.

"Oh be careful, beloved husband – do not underestimate the cunning of Erestor! I am convinced that by now he knows of the misfortune which has befallen you, and will try to use it against you! He might even try to win your trust by telling you that you were friends or even – lovers!"

She had gasped, and once again broken out in tears. Glorfindel patted her arm.

"I shall not fall for his lies, my love. Should he dare to approach, hoping to profit from this situation, I will use this chance to take my revenge."

Firinwë had then buried her face in Glorfindel's robe, which was wise, as he could not see the satisfied smile on her lips. Not that she wanted to see Erestor dead – Firinwë drew the line at kin slaying. But a nice little injury to get him out of the way… maybe a prolonged stay in Finwë's mines where his Orcs dug for Mithril… ah, the possibilities!

A sharp rap on the door shook Fin out of his thoughts.

"Who is it?" he called.

"The lord Finwë wishes to see you, my lord Glorfindel," the muffled voice of a guard could be heard.

His lord? He would have to obey then.

"Wait outside – I will be with you in a second."

Quickly, Fin slipped out of bed and into his clothes. He was curious to see his lord – maybe this would help him to remember?

Shortly after, he followed the guard to Finwë's Great Hall, once again wondering about the way this palace was built. So often he thought they were walking in circles, and corridors which had led to the right seemed to lead now to the left. It was very confusing, but he blamed it on his headache.

Finally, they arrived in the Great Hall, and the guard, after bowing respectfully, left. Advisors and visitors were present, but all talk stopped and Glorfindel felt an uncounted number of eyes watching him.

"Ah, my dear Glorfindel – how good it is to see you again!" Finwë cheered, then he clapped his hands.

"Leave us alone – lord Glorfindel and I have important matters to discuss."

The guards and advisors quickly left the room, some of them throwing sideways glances at Glorfindel. As soon as the last minion had left, Finwë got up from his throne and walked toward the warrior, a bright smile on his face.

For the first time since he had woken up, Glorfindel felt that someone looked familiar. Finwë wore a black velvet robe, the sleeves lined with dark green silk. His long black hair was unbraided, and his eyes were of a deep brown. Three large crows were circling above him - yes, his lord looked familiar to Glorfindel – very familiar.

The black-haired Elf had now reached Fin, who almost suffered a heart attack when strong arms embraced him and he was firmly kissed on the mouth.

"I thought they would never leave. I have missed you, my love."

"My lord…?" Glorfindel croaked, shivering when he felt his lord's hand stroke his hair.

"It is alright, Fin. Nobody will see us here. But I forgot – you do not remember."

Finwë released the warrior, and Fin's heart contracted painfully when he saw the sad expression in the dark brown eyes.

"I am so sorry… I do not remember anything…" he stuttered, and Finwë, who was enjoying the scene very much, sighed dramatically.

"I had feared as much. You do not even remember me, or our love? Ai, Glorfindel – that such sad times have come!"

He turned around, hiding a smile. This was easier than stealing an apple from an Elfling! Elves were so predictable – without a doubt, Glorfindel would feel guilty now and be easy to manipulate in his eagerness to make Finwë feel better.

And in fact, Glorfindel reached out for him, begging him to stay.

"I do not remember – but I remember you. Or at least you look familiar to me – you are the only one so far. Please do not be sad, my lord… were we… are we…?"

He broke off, obviously embarrassed. Finwë stroked his face. Nice – maybe this would be even more fun than he had initially thought.

"Yes, we were, and yes, we are. We have loved each other for a long time, but keep it secret. Please tell me – even if you do not remember me, do you – feel anything?"

He batted his lashes at Glorfindel, who studied the face of the Elven lord. Could it be? Was this the mysterious lover he had dreamt of?

"I feel – drawn to you," he finally admitted, and was rewarded with a blinding smile.

"This is more than I could have hoped for," Finwë said. He only regretted that the real Erestor was not here to enjoy this sight.

"You look pale, my love – would you not like to take a walk in the woods? The fresh air and the sunshine will speed up your recovery."

Glorfindel's face lit up at the prospect of getting outside.

"The healer wanted me to stay in bed – do you think I should go outside, anyway?"

Finwë waved the remark off.

"Healers – if it was up to them, we would never get out of bed."

He moved a little closer to Glorfindel, giving him a cheeky smile.

"And if it was up to me, we would not, either," he purred, and this purr was another thing Fin was familiar with. Oh yes, he was now convinced that this was his dream lover, and he did not object when he was embraced again.

"As you wish, my lord," he gasped as Finwë looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"No need for formalities while we are alone, Fin – just call me… your dark jewel."

Then he kissed him again, and Fin responded quite eagerly, feeling truly alive for the first time since the attack.

Finally, Finwë released his victim, looking deep into Glorfindel's eyes, as if he was looking for something. A satisfied smile played around his lips, and he took a step back.

"You should really go for a walk in the woods, Fin – but do not leave unarmed."

He walked over to the wall and took down a richly ornamented sword which hung there. Scabbard and belt clinked when he moved, and this, too, was a sound Fin was familiar with.

"Here. Gird your weapon. These are dangerous times we live in. I would not want you to confront the enemy unarmed."

Fin nodded gratefully. He fixed the belt around his middle and ran his hand over the sword's hilt.

"This feels good," he murmured.

"Of course. You are a warrior. Without a weapon, you would probably feel naked. Now go, my love – I have visitors waiting outside. I shall meet you later in your chambers."

He blew a kiss to Fin, and the warrior automatically reached out in the air to "catch" it and "put it in his pocket". Erestor had always done this when Fin left for a patrol. It was also a game Estorel loved greatly.

Finwë disappeared through the door, and Fin headed for the exit, happy to finally get some fresh air.

Meanwhile, Finwë tore aside the cloth which covered the Palantir, throwing it carelessly in a corner. Mist rose up in the ball, and soon, pictures showed. He saw Glorfindel leaving the palace, and rubbed his hands.

"This will be most amusing," he snickered, "go and slay the Balrog, Glorfindel – I will make sure your brave deeds are rewarded tonight."

Then he dragged a comfortable chair close, sat down and prepared for the show he had been looking forward to since Glorfindel had arrived.

* * *  
Of all places for Elrond to get lost in, Thranduil's Great Cave was certainly the worst. Not because the lord of Rivendell feared that anything would happen to him here, but the thought of giving Thranduil the satisfaction of seeing him wandering around aimlessly made Elrond cringe. Their encounter had been frosty, to say the least, and in the past, Thranduil had more than once mocked that the Rivendell Elves were not able to tell their backsides from their elbows and needed a guide to find their undergarments, so the situation was highly embarrassing.

Finally, Elrond breathed a sigh of relief when he stood in front of his chamber door – or so he thought. He turned the handle, and found himself standing in a dimly lit chamber which was definitely not his own. Rugs and bearskins covered the stone floor, and beside the fireplace, leaning on the mantelpiece, stood a tall, slim figure Elrond knew only all too well.

"Have you lost your way, Elrond?" Thranduil asked, but there was no mockery in his voice, so Elrond decided to face the embarrassing situation with the dignity of an Elven lord.

"Indeed. Please forgive the intrusion, I was under the erroneous impression that these were my chambers. If you would be so kind as to redirect me, I shall leave you to your solitude, with all due apologies."

Thranduil turned to a small side table, and filled two goblets with wine. He picked them up and walked over to Elrond.

"By the Forest Spirits, Elrond – you still talk as if you were reading from a 1st age guidance book for conversation. Here, have some wine, maybe this will help you to build shorter sentences that even a simple Woodland Elf like me can understand."

Elrond blushed heavily and swallowed a sharp reply, but he took the offered wine and bowed his head in thanks. The wine was sweet, it must have been one of Thranduil's special vintages. Thranduil sat down in a large, carved seat, and ordered Elrond to sit down in the seat next to him.

"Sit down, Elrond. Nobody stands when I sit."

Another sharp remark was swallowed. If Thranduil continued at this pace, there would not be enough Thusly-flowers to brew the tea needed to calm Elrond's stomach. He ground his teeth and sat down.

"Ever the polite diplomat. You should stop grinding your teeth, Elrond – they might wear out. So, tell me – what drives you to wander my home at this hour of the night?"

Elrond's expression changed from annoyed to guarded.

"We are going to battle tomorrow. My mind could not find rest," he answered politely, and took another sip of wine.

"Indeed – well, this is understandable. My mind, however, cannot find rest because I worry greatly for my brother."

'He knows', Elrond thought, and his hand cramped on the armrest of his chair. 'He knows as well as I do where Gil and Amaris are, and what they are up to.'

"I see that you know what I am talking about. Maybe I should gloat in the knowledge that I finally have you here, in my house, cringing in my chair with pain, your heart one large raw wound, hurting and bleeding. I should enjoy your pain, Elrond Half-Elven, should see it as a small retribution for my father's death, and the death of so many of my people."

Elrond closed his eyes. Each of Thranduil's words was like a slap in the face, but he would not succumb, oh no, he would not give the King of Mirkwood the satisfaction of seeing him cry.

"I should, but oddly enough, I do not."

Thranduil got up, placed his goblet on the table and walked over to the lord of Rivendell, cupping his chin and gently forcing him to look up into his eyes. Elrond expected contempt, but all he saw in the king's eyes was compassion and sadness.

"Nothing happens without a reason. We might not understand the reasons now, and maybe we never will, but this is one of the great truths of life. There is a reason why we live, and there is a reason why we die. So there must be reason why some are returned from the Halls of Waiting while others are not."

Thranduil let go of Elrond's chin.

"You might think your secret is well guarded, Elrond, but I know the story of how Celeborn cheated on Námo to keep the king, my brother and the Lórien Elf here. A charming story, no doubt, and one which will be retold for ages around the camp fires. But you and I, Elrond, we know that nobody could return against Námo's will. He is a Vala, one of the most powerful of all, while you and I are merely Elves. Celeborn could only cheat because Námo allowed it. So the question remains: why were these three sent back? Do you know the answer?"

Elrond shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I do, Elrond, at least where Amaris and Gil-galad are concerned. They were sent back so we could let go. You and I, we have spent the last ages grieving. My pain was that of a son and brother, yours that of a lover. It is hard to lose a loved one, even more so when we lose them without the chance to tell them how much we love them. Amaris was returned to me – I could ask him to forgive me my harsh words, and in return, I learned that he was not the perfect idol I had worshipped all the years, but a normal Elf with all his faults and flaws. For the first time I did not feel inferior to him. It was not easy to accept these truths, but after all these years, I feel that a heavy burden has been lifted from me."

Elrond's eyes followed each of Thranduil's movements. He felt he had not known this Elf at all. He remembered the many heated arguments, the fighting, the insults. He remembered how Thranduil had threatened to slay Gil-galad the very moment he set foot on Mirkwood's ground. And now the same Elf who had once released his hounds on Elladan when the young one had accidentally overstepped the border of Mirkwood stood by his side at a moment of his life when he found himself standing at a crossroads, not knowing which way to turn.

Elrond recognized this gift, and he accepted it humbly and with deep gratitude.

"You, Elrond, have hung on to the high king's memory all through the ages. Even more so since your wife passed away. Oh, I know it all - no step of yours was kept secret from me! You have buried yourself in the vault you call your study, surrounded yourself with dead memories and things and missed out on life. And once more you sit here, your hands empty. You gave everything, and received nothing."

Thranduil knelt down, and took Elrond's hands in his.

"You would not listen to a friend or a loved one telling you this, Elrond, but maybe you will listen to your opponent: let go, Elrond. Let Gil-galad go. He is not part of your life anymore. He cannot replace what you have lost."

A painful sigh released from Elrond's chest, and finally he could do what he had not been able to do so many years before: he let go of Gil-galad's soul.

* * *

For hours, Erestor and Nonfindel had walked in silence, occasionally evading a band of Orcs or men, till finally Erestor felt the other Elf's hand on his shoulder.

"We are now very close to our target, Erestor. See?"

He pointed in the direction of a clearing, which now became visible. To Erestor's great surprise it was sun-lit, warm, filled with lush green grass and birdsong.

"What is that?" he gasped, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Magic," Nonfindel replied, and stepped closer to the advisor.

"How do you know?"

The blond Elf shrugged.

"I hear everything. And I see more than most. Although I have never seen the lord of these woods, I know he must have the power of magic. His palace and the woods surrounding it look like this – an oasis of light in the midst of the darkness. He is a moth – a creature of the night seeking the light."

"If that is the case, he shall find himself burned," Erestor snapped. "This makes no sense to me at all. What does he need Glorfindel for? He had him in his power before, and returned him. And why was it so easy for us to get here? Nobody stopped us, nobody attacked us. Surely a wizard of his power would know that we are here?"

Nonfindel gave Erestor a short, firm look.

"Of course he does. If he is who I think he is, he knows more than we could ever imagine."

"And who would that be?"

The two Elves looked at each other for a moment, then Nonfindel sighed.

"A Vala."

Erestor rolled his eyes.

"I know that he is a Vala. We have already established that Lord Námo rules these woods."

"Oh have we? Really? Well, please excuse my ignorance, but who is 'we'?"

"The lords Elrond, Celeborn and the lady Galadriel. We found some evidence which…"

"… you will now share with me?"

Erestor was reluctant to tell this annoying Elf about the book, but finally decided that telling Nonfindel could not cause much harm. The blond Elf listened to Erestor's report with interest, and surprisingly without interrupting him once. When Erestor finished, Nonfindel scratched his head.

"So we have, once again, problems with a ring, and the book said the Vala of Death is responsible for this?"

"Indeed. It said that Lord Námo forged it. So you see that we have a serious problem at hand."

Nonfindel thought about it for a moment, rubbing his chin.

"Erestor – would you mind quoting the part about the ring once more for me?"

The advisor shrugged, but agreed.

"'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was jealous that others had a Ring of Power, but not him, and he envied Melkor his cunning heart. 'I have been cheated by a female, so doom for Middle-earth shall come from the hand of a female', he said, and he put a spell on the Dark Ring, that its power might only be awoken by the treachery of a female, one worthy in deceit to match his own, and then all Middle-earth would be destroyed, and a new world be created, where he would dwell and rule and be worshipped."

Nonfindel cocked an eyebrow.

"Forgive me for not having been specific enough – I meant the part about Lord Námo's involvement."

"That was the part."

"And where is Námo mentioned?"

Erestor's patience was growing thin.

"As I just told you: 'And so the Vala of Death forged the Dark Ring, for he was …"

"…jealous, yes, I know. But from my understanding, there was no mention of Lord Námo."

Erestor fought the urge to grab the other Elf by the collar and shake him.

"'Vala of Death' – what is there not to understand? Lord Námo is the Vala of Death! Even you should know this!"

Nonfindel nodded.

"Yes, you are quite right, my dear Erestor. Lord Námo is the Vala of Death. But was he also the Vala who made the ring? For, my apologies, but I find it very hard to believe that we are talking about the same Vala here."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Erestor – death is impartial. He knows neither friends nor enemies, likes or dislikes. If Námo wished us dead, he would only have to snap his fingers, and we would all fall down. What benefit would there be in the forging a ring, I ask you? And why should he hunt down Glorfindel? He had him in his power for ages – and released him, sent him back. No Vala in his right mind would willingly succumb again to Glorfindel's hackneyed stories!"

Erestor leant against a tree, his head spinning.

"What are you trying to tell me, Nonfindel?"

The other Elf began to walk up and down, hands folded behind his back.

"If Námo wanted to see any of us dead, he would simply come and get us. Or snap his fingers. Send his guards. Whatever it is a Vala of Death does to fulfil his duties. There is absolutely no reason for him to sit in a palace located in the bad part of Lothlórien, kidnapping retired Balrog-slayers or forging a Ring of Power. He released Glorfindel, and, if I may believe the rumours, even allowed the High King, Thranduil's brother and Orophin to return, though he probably knew that he was tricked. Everybody knows Celeborn cheats. I am sure Námo is no exception.

“And as it makes no sense for Námo to do any of these things, this only allows one conclusion: the Lord of Tíngel is not Námo, and the assorted Elven nobility has once again managed to mess things up royally. Not that I am surprised. Anything Celeborn is involved with is doomed, be it love-affairs, marriages or wars."

Erestor stared at Nonfindel, and tried to make sense of what he had just heard. This could not be true. Or… could it? Nonfindel had a point there – but if it was not Námo, who was it then? Before he could ask Nonfindel, they heard steps, and quick as squirrels they climbed the tree. Somebody had entered the clearing, and when Erestor saw who it was, his heart stopped beating for a moment.

"Fin..." he whispered.

* * *

Legolas lay sideways on his bed, head hanging down and a bucket underneath. How he had gotten here he did not know – he had been in the camp, there had been this drinking contest and then – nothing. Blank. All he knew was that he wished to die, soon please, for his head was spinning and he felt sicker than he had ever felt in his life.

"A lovely sight you make, nephew," Amaris' mocking voice could be heard from the door, and Legolas, who opened one eye with great pain, saw his uncle standing in the doorframe, carrying a bowl and a towel.

Legolas vaguely remembered that Amaris had been a participant in the drinking contest as well, but unlike him, his uncle looked his usual immaculate self. His hair was neatly braided, his clothes were clean, and he looked freshly bathed. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air, and Legolas felt even worse.

"Though you fought bravely, penneth, I would suggest that you continue to fight the enemy with bow and arrow. You seem to have a low tolerance for alcoholic beverages. Are you feeling bad?"

Legolas only groaned, and weakly pulled the bucket closer. He felt cold and clammy – if only he could be sick and get it over and done with!

"Obviously you are. Very well then, as you are a little monosyllabic this morning, I shall do the talking. Legolas, it was just decided that you should become the future King of Mirkwood."

A wave of nausea flooded through Legolas' body, his head disappeared into the bucket and he was violently sick.

"Your enthusiasm is contagious," Amaris sighed, then he put the bowl and the towel on the floor. He crouched down beside his nephew and held his hair out of his face while Legolas retched. Finally, when his body had expelled all that made him ill, the young Elf curled up in a ball on the bed and moaned pitifully.

Amaris wrinkled his nose in disgust, picked up the bucket and put it out on the corridor, closing the door quickly. Then he reached for bowl and towel and walked to the bed to sit down beside Legolas. He gently pushed away the sweat-soaked strands of hair from Legolas' face, then wetted the towel in the cold water and placed it on his nephew's forehead.

The young Elf sighed and closed his eyes, giving in to the soothing coolness.

"I see that I have your full attention now. Good. I wish your father's tolerance for alcohol was as low as yours, discussions with him would be so much easier. Now, penneth, as I mentioned before, we have decided that you will be the heir to the throne of Mirkwood. I would offer you a glass of your ada's famous 4926 2nd Ager to celebrate, but…"

"This is not funny, uncle!" Legolas groaned, pulling a cushion over his head and turning around to face the wall. "Go away and let me die in peace, and by the Forest Spirits, do not mention wine in my presence ever again!"

"You can die in Peace or Rivendell, this is totally up to you. But I am quite serious, you should know that my sense of humour is underdeveloped. And now stop behaving like an Elfling, turn around and look at me while I talk to you."

The last sentence was still spoken jokingly, but Legolas heard the underlying tone well and knew that he had to obey. He turned around, facing his uncle, and studied his face through bloodshot eyes.

"Uncle – I could never be the King of Mirkwood. I am only an illegitimate son."

Amaris held up a hand and wriggled his fingers.

"How many fingers do you see, Legolas?"

The hung-over Elf frowned, wondering what this was about, but then he answered: "Five."

"Perfect. What is your name?"

"Legolas – but why…"

"What age are we living in?" Amaris continued, ignoring his nephew's question.

"The 3rd."

"Perfect. You are fit to be king."

"But…"

"Legolas, hear me out."

Amaris took Legolas' hand, and smiled at him, a little melancholic, the young Elf thought.

"We go to war. Nobody knows what will happen. Forest Spirits, Valar and whatever deities are on duty will, I hope, watch over your ada. I tried all my skills, but I could not talk him out of leading his army into battle. Should he be called to the Halls of Waiting, somebody has to take his place."

"But why me? Why not you? You are back, you could…"

"No, my dear young one. I will sail West. I have no place here, my presence does more damage than good, and it is time for things to change. Your ada is a good Elf, Legolas, and I love him dearly. Sooner or later, he will probably sail West, too. He was burdened with a responsibility he was much too young to carry, and he has fulfilled his duty admirably. Only he knows how much he has sacrificed for our people. He is entitled to some happiness."

Legolas looked over Amaris' shoulder, out of the window. He heard Elves talking, preparing the horses and weapons. Being responsible for all of them – he could not imagine what it meant.

"Uncle – please understand. I am just a mere archer. I skipped most of my studies to roam the woods, I am a warrior and hunter, not a diplomat. I have not the skills needed by a king. Why not chose one of my brothers?"

Amaris let go of Legolas’ hand and began to count off his various nephews on his fingers.

"Oh yes, your brothers. Let me see – which one would you recommend? The one who swore never to leave Mirkwood and sail West because he is convinced that Valinor is a trap set by the Valar? Who accused Cirdan of being involved in the conspiracy? Indeed, he would be a good choice. Or maybe the one who left his wife and four Elflings to run away to Minas Tirith with a tavern dancer? Certainly a king worthy of our realm. Not to forget your youngest brother who enjoys wearing ladies robes. Then there are …"

"Have mercy, uncle," Legolas groaned, holding his head between his hands in the vain hope of keeping the headache on a bearable level.

"Legolas, listen to me."

Amaris grabbed his nephew by the shoulders and forced him to look him in the eyes.

"It is true – you cannot write your name without mixing up the letters, you probably could not tell a poem of the 1st age from one of the 2nd age, and your idea of courting a female is dragging her to your cave by her braids. But you have seen the world, Legolas. You have, of your own will, left your home after our people failed to keep the creature Gollum, and volunteered to hunt for him, acknowledging our responsibility. You have been one of the Nine Walkers, befriended mortals and even a dwarf, ignoring prejudices and customs. You judge by your heart, and you acknowledge greatness, wisdom and gentleness no matter where you find them. This is what makes a great King, Legolas, and I have no doubt that you will be a great king once your time has come."

Legolas' eyes had become wet during this speech, and now he was actually crying, a fact which embarrassed him greatly. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and while he was at it, his nose too. Amaris hugged him, then slapped his nephew's hand.

"Lesson one for future kings, Legolas: never wipe your nose with your sleeve. Use a handkerchief."

"And if I do not have one?" Legolas sniffled.

"Then use the shirt-tail of the Elf in front of you."

The two looked at each other, then they broke out in loud laughter, and the Rivendell Elves standing under the window found their impression that their Mirkwood brothers were a howling mad lot once again confirmed.

* * *  
Nonfindel and Erestor stared down at the clearing where Glorfindel strolled around, stopping from time to time to shake his head and sigh.

"I cannot see any guards," Erestor whispered, "they would not possibly let a prisoner wander around unguarded?"

Nonfindel shrugged.

"What if he is not their prisoner? See, he is armed. But you are right – I have no doubt that he is watched. This might be a trap, so we must be careful."

Erestor took in Glorfindel's face, and his heart skipped a beat. How he had missed him! And how he longed for him… no, trap or not, he had to go to his beloved. Before his companion could do or say anything, he slipped down from the branch he had been lying on, and landed almost soundlessly behind the warrior.

Glorfindel spun around, for his ears were sharp and he had felt the light waft of air when Erestor jumped from the tree.

Quickly taking two steps back, Glorfindel drew his sword, and looked the black-clad Elf opposite him up and down.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he snapped, and Erestor, confused, cocked his head and approached Glorfindel, reaching out with his hands.

"Who …? It is I, Erestor. Do you not recognize me, beloved?"

Erestor had been prepared for everything – but not for Glorfindel's attack. The warrior stormed forward so quickly that Erestor only realized what had happened when the sword cut deep into his shoulder. In fact Erestor only survived certain death because Glorfindel had still not fully recovered and the sword was heavy.

The advisor stumbled backwards, pressing his hand to the wound then looking at it. His hand was wet with blood – his own blood, and there was a sharp pain. But it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart when it sunk in that Glorfindel had attacked him.

"Fin… why have you done this? Beloved…" he stuttered, reaching out once again for Glorfindel.

But the warrior was out of his mind with anger. The tendons on his neck stood out like vines, his eyes were blazing, and he lifted his sword up for the last, final blow.

"Murderer! Did you think me weak? Then you thought wrong! Meet your fate, Erestor!"

Had Erestor been all alone, he would have probably given in to this fate, and gone to the Halls of Waiting. But there was somebody else to consider, and while he could never have hurt Glorfindel for his own sake, he would not allow their unborn son to be harmed.

It made no sense to fight Glorfindel – though Erestor was a warrior, too, he would stand no chance against Fin. Being wounded limited his chances even more, and as Glorfindel was obviously not willing to listen to reason, Erestor did the only thing possible: he began to run back to where he and Nonfindel had left the horses.

However, Fin was not willing to let the Elf he thought to be his greatest enemy escape, so he followed him. He was quick on his feet, and soon he was catching up with Erestor, who finally stumbled over a root and fell down, crying out when a sharp stone cut his cheek. He curled up in a ball, hoping to protect the little one.

"Finally I have got you," Fin growled, raising his sword in preparation for the final blow. He was distracted when something black shot down from the sky and tangled up in his hair. Fin flung his arms around wildly, but Glorfinkle hacked mercilessly after his eyes, trying to protect his master, who lay wounded and heartbroken on the ground.

When Glorfindel managed to beat the crow off, he returned his attention to Erestor. Suddenly, he felt somebody tapping on his back.

"Pardon me, my lord. Could you tell me the way to the local brothel? I am most afraid I got lost."

Glorfindel spun around, swinging his sword, and Nonfindel ducked, otherwise he would have lost his head.

Before Fin could say anything, a fist collided with his chin. There was so much power behind this blow that Glorfindel felt as if Asfaloth had kicked him. He groaned, dropped his sword and fell down on his back, moving not even an eyelash anymore.

Nonfindel rolled his eyes and looked down at Fin, making sure that the warrior had really passed out, then he rushed over to Erestor, gently helping the injured Elf up.

"My dear advisor, seeing how you handle your marital problems has convinced me to stay single till Námo calls me. Can you walk?"

Erestor swayed a little, but he nodded.

"Yes. Yes, I … I am fine."

"If a deep stab wound applied by your husband qualifies as 'fine', I would rather not know what 'not fine' is."

Nonfindel tore his cloak into pieces and pressed the makeshift compress against the wound, then he fixed it to Erestor's shoulder with more rags.

"We must leave. I can already smell the enemy. Do you think you can fetch the horses?"

Erestor nodded, but did not move.

"Fin… how is…" he began, but Nonfindel cut him off.

"No worries – he will be sleeping for quite some time. Go get the horses, I will wrap this parcel up. I do not suppose you would want to leave him here?"

Erestor, grinding his teeth and trying to will the pain away, shook his head. The Elfling was tossing and turning, adding to his discomfort, but at least this indicated that the little one was unharmed.

The advisor turned to do as he was told, but he stopped for a moment by Nonfindel's side.

"Thank you, Nonfindel."

The blond Elf smiled and nodded, then Erestor walked away, and Nonfindel turned his attention to his brother. He closed his hand in a fist and kissed it.

"No reason to thank me, my dear Erestor. I have dreamt for ages of doing this!"

Then he knelt down to tie up Glorfindel, and if he hadn't been worried for Erestor's well-being, he'd probably have whistled a merry tune.

* * *

Finwë stared into the Palantir. He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then polished the surface with his sleeve. Surely this could not be? His brilliant plan had failed? This must be a smudge on the surface.

But no – despite more polishing and eye-rubbing, the picture remained the same: Erestor, his companion and Glorfindel were leaving Tíngel, and none of his brainless minions would reach them in time to prevent this.

"Firinwë!" he yelled, and the volume of his voice as well as the fury in it made Orcs and men alike duck for cover. After only a very short time, the hasty steps of Lady Firinwë could be heard. Finwë turned towards her, his face even paler than usual, and he pointed at the Palantir.

"I have only one question, and if you want to escape a very painful death, you had better answer it right away."

Firinwë, who knew that she was in deep trouble, curtsied and nodded eagerly.

"Of course, my lord, whatever you ask, I will answer!"

"Good," Finwë growled, and towered up in front of her. He glared down at Firinwë, his fury radiating like waves of heat.

"What I want to know, dear grand-daughter," he thundered, accentuating each word with a hard poke of his index finger to her shoulder, "is only one thing: WHO IN THE NAME OF ALL ANGRY SPIRITS IS NONFINDEL?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

They rode side by side, all day long, without talking or even looking at each other. Once in a while, Gil-galad would risk a sidewise glance at Elrond, but the lord of Imladris pretended not to notice.

Gil was not a fool. After all he had shared with Elrond, he could read him like an open book, and where others thought Elrond to be a mystery, Gil knew all his secrets. Of course Elrond was well aware of what had happened between him and Amaris. And Gil also knew that he had hurt Elrond deeply and would have to approach the other sooner or later about this, but not now, one day's ride from a battle. And what should he tell Elrond, anyway? That he had fallen for somebody else? If that had been the truth, Gil would have been honest about it. But he was confused. Had he been flattered by Amaris' obvious infatuation? Or did he actually feel more for the Mirkwood Elf than he had thought? It went without saying that Elrond deserved honesty, but how could he be honest if he did not know the truth himself?

Gil craned his neck and tried to catch a glimpse of Amaris, who rode out in front, beside Thranduil and Legolas, surrounded by the Mirkwood archers. They wore no armour, despite Gil's urging, claiming that this was the way of their people. The trees whispered to them, wishing them well, the bushes bowed and said their blessings, and there could be no doubt who was king in this forest - certainly not Gil-galad.

They made camp for the night beside a small pond, and while Gil ate his broth, he mused over the situation. So, Amaris seemed to care for him. This was quite a compliment, all things considered. He was, after all, a king without a realm. A warrior. More strong than fair, more courageous than educated. Beside Amaris' flawless beauty and sharp mind, he felt like a peasant. And they had nothing in common! Nothing! What one of them liked the other loathed; they were as different as fire and water. So maybe this was only lust? Burning like a straw fire, quick and hot, but dying down soon?

"I see that you still prefer a light meal before a battle."

Gil looked up, and Elrond sat down beside him, pointing at the bowl in the king's large hands.

"Yes, I do. Full bellies make bad warriors."

Both sat there for a while, one eating, the other staring into the fire. They had done so countless times, the herald staying by his king's side. It had been a different silence back then, though. No words were needed for them to understand each other's thoughts and wishes. In the end, it was Elrond who broke the silence.

"These things happen, Ereinion. It is not pretty, and I would be a liar if I pretended that this situation did not affect me. But we cannot force our hearts to feel as we might wish. And even less the hearts of others."

"We did not..." Gil began, but Elrond shook his head.

"It does not matter what you did or did not. I hold no grudge. I wish you all the happiness you deserve, and I hope that I will find happiness, too, one day. Maybe now that I have set you free, I can be free, too."

Gil stared down at his bowl, and watched as his tears dropped into the hot broth.

"You know that I love you, Elrond, do you not? I always have. All those years..."

Elrond put his hand on Gil's arm, and rubbed it gently with his thumb.

"I know that you love me, Ereinion. I love you, too. But sometimes, love is just not enough. You are the same as you have always been. But I am not. When we first met, you provided me with all I needed: love, comfort, protection. I looked up to you, admired you. Now I am older than you, I have lived a long and painful life. These centuries have changed me. The pain and the losses made me who I am today."

Elrond leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss on Gil's cheek.

"Thank you for all the good times, Ereinion."

They looked at each other, and though both tried to see the lover in the other's face, they only saw the sad look of a good friend. Gil pressed Elrond's hand one last time, then the lord of Imladris got up and walked over to Mauburz, who had watched the scene with increasing worry.

"Nice lord Elrond not looks happy. Can Mauburz help? Maybe throw Mirkwood Elf into pond?"

Elrond managed a smile.

"My dear, loyal friend - no, I do not think that would improve the situation. This aside we will need every warrior available tomorrow."

Mauburz looked disappointed.

"Good, not throwing Amaris in pond then. But if change mind, tell me."

"I will. And now you should go to bed, too, Mauburz - there will be a battle tomorrow which will take all our strength."

She shook her head, and scratched her ear with one of her claws.

"No - Mauburz stays here. You go sleep, I will watch."

"Thank you."

Mauburz looked after Elrond, how he slowly made his way to his bedroll, shoulders drooping. She threw an angry look in the direction of Gil-galad, but the king had already left for his tent.

She did not know much about the way relationships worked among Elves, but she understood one thing: Elrond was unhappy, and he was lonely.

So Mauburz decided that it was about time to find lord Elrond a new lover.

* * *

Eledwen and Elfaël were sleeping, but Elcallon sat on the terrace and stared out into the night. The sky was clouded, neither stars nor moon lighted the scenery, but he saw every detail. The nameless Elf sat on the step in front of him, one of his arms resting on Elcallon's thigh. He brushed his charge’s hair.

"I wish you could speak to me or hear my questions. I have so many of them. Who are you, where do you come from, and are there others like you and me?"

Elcallon felt rather the fool, sitting here and talking to one who was deaf, but he could not share his thoughts and fears with anybody else. Again and again he recalled the conversation with Toban, calculating the chances of the young man's foolish plan succeeding, and he always came to the same conclusion: there were no chances. It was utter folly.

And why should he risk his life and the lives of his friends? Maybe Toban had made the story up? But why? The Elf just could not imagine that anybody would be capable of such an enormous lie. Maybe the young man was ill? Maybe he had hit his head?

Gently he ran the brush through the other Elf's long, silver blond hair. Not that it needed the extra care; Elcallon had already brushed it in the morning, but he found that his touch seemed to calm the nameless Elf who had become increasingly restless these last days.

"Maybe you have a family? Then they will certainly miss you. But no - you do not have a family. None of us has anymore."

He continued his work. After a while, he stretched out his legs, and saw that the fingernails of his charge had left small, half-moon shaped dents in the soft suede of his leggings. Elcallon frowned, then he put the brush down and took a deep breath. The dents had just given him an idea. Quickly, he moved from behind the other Elf and crouched down in front of him, taking his hand.

"You cannot hear, and you cannot speak. But maybe this has not always been the case? Maybe you were able to see once, and learned how to read? In your own language, which I cannot write."

However, Elcallon decided it was worth to give it a try. Carefully, he began to 'write' with his index finger on the strange Elf's palm.

"What is your name?"

A questioning look showed in the nameless Elf's face. He obviously did not understand what Elcallon was trying to do, or maybe he did, but could not understand the language? Elcallon's heart sank, but he tried again, repeating his question over and over again. Finally, when no reaction came from the Elf, he dropped the hand he had been holding, and sighed.

"It was worth a try, my friend. Come now, I shall take you to your chamber."

He wanted to get up, but then he felt the other Elf's hand, touching his arm and trying to find his hand. His hold was firm - he was strong, and Elcallon knelt down again, watching in fascination as the other Elf began to move his index finger over his own palm. It took Elcallon a while to understand, but then his heart skipped a beat when he realized that the other Elf, too, was drawing letters. He concentrated on the movements, and after a few times of repetition, Elcallon was finally able to identify the letters.

"Celeborn? Your name is Celeborn! Yes! You understand me!"

He hugged the Elf, who now had a smile on his face, the first Elcallon had seen since he had been brought here. With trembling hands, he took Celeborn's hand again, and wrote down the question which had tortured him ever since his discussion with Toban.

"How many Elves are still alive?"

Celeborn frowned, as if he doubted that he had understood the question correctly. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he reached out for Elcallon's hand, and drew a number on his palm.

Elcallon stared at him. This could not be possible! Celeborn repeated his answer until the other Elf closed his hands over his and gently squeezed it. But before Elcallon could ask any further questions, there was a knock on the door, and he looked up.

"You may enter," he called from the terrace, and the chief advisor of the king entered the room, keeping a respectful distance and bowing deeply.

"My master wishes to see you, Elcallon," he said without looking at him. The laws were strict, and more than one who had looked at the Elf too long had lost his head in the past. Not under the reign of this king, but the advisor remembered well his king's father. The old king had seen to it that the ownership of the Elf had been respected. And while the advisor would have loved to do much more than just look at the Elf, he preferred to keep his head on his shoulders.

Elcallon was tempted to tell the man that he did not feel like seeing the king, but this would have raised suspicion, and when he thought about it, he needed to see the king. There were some urgent questions which needed to be asked.

"I will follow you in a moment."

The advisor nodded, and retreated to the door, waiting for the Elf. Elcallon helped Celeborn up and led him back to his chamber. After a moment, he emerged from the room, nodded at the man and followed him through the door.

This was going to be a long night.

* * *

"Nobody asked you to come after me! You have no business being here! I am very well capable of looking after myself, I do not need a guardian."

"I have every business being here! What in Elbereth's name got into you, Melpomaen! To come here - you have no idea who or what you are dealing with!"

"I do!" Melpomaen insisted. He folded his arms over his chest and pouted.

"I made a plan, and I calculated in everything. It will work. Lord Celeborn is here, and I will find him."

Orophin rolled his eyes.

"Why did you not talk to us? Why did you just run away?"

Melpomaen looked a little uncomfortable at this question, then he shrugged.

"Nobody ever takes me seriously. I am not Master Erestor. I am just a junior advisor. Lord Elladan would have laughed at me."

"I doubt it. I would have laughed, but not Elladan."

Melpomaen sighed.

"See? That is exactly what I mean."

Feronil decided it was time to interrupt the argument.

"Were we at home, I could enjoy your petty bickering for hours, but I would like to remind you two noble Elves that we are in the city of our enemies. Just in case you should be unaware of what this means: one warrior, one advisor and one Elfling in need of a good spanking against a complete army of Mortals. We have not seen any sign of lord Celeborn. I have been talking to the merchants and the chamber maids; nobody mentioned anything unusual. It seems to be safe to state that lord Celeborn is not here. As everybody else suspects, he is probably held captive in Tíngel forest, and we only make fools of ourselves here, with the additional risk of losing our heads. I promised Master Melpomaen the Know-It-All to accompany him, which I did. I also promised that I would give him one week to find lord Celeborn. The week is over, and we have seen neither hide nor hair of the lord. So I say: let us return home, leave the war to the warriors and await their safe return."

"I will not leave! Lord Celeborn is here, I know it! I think he is locked up in the castle - who else would have the means to keep an Elf imprisoned? I must find a way to get into the castle!"

"Melpomaen - I am at the castle all day long. I did look and listen around, but I heard nothing. Why are you so sure that lord Celeborn is here? Have you heard anything?" Orophin asked, and Melpomaen shuffled his feet. He looked from Feronil's mocking grin to Orophin's stern face, and sighed.

"I have no reason to believe he is here other than my instinct. I know he is here. I hear him calling for me at night, and sometimes I wake up, thinking him near."

"Oh by the Valar, this is priceless!" Feronil howled, slapping his thigh repeatedly. "Our little library mouse here is in love with lord Celeborn! To think that I got myself into this adventure because of an Elfling's first love!"

He laughed and giggled, which caused Melpomaen to cringe and turn as red as a tomato.

"Quiet now!"

Orophin had a voice and a tone that could silence even the most talkative souls instantly, and Feronil knew immediately that this was not a request, so he tried to stifle his laughter in the cushions.

"Melpomaen - please answer me truthfully: is Feronil right? Do you harbour - feelings for lord Celeborn?"

If only there had been a mouse hole somewhere. No matter how tiny, Melpomaen would have crawled into it and never come out again. How embarrassing! How terribly, terribly embarrassing! But it could not be helped; he had to answer.

"I - I like lord Celeborn very much," he murmured, and tears began to pool in his eyes. "Very much."

Orophin thought about it for a moment, then he shrugged.

"A loving heart is a power not to be underestimated. I often know where my husband is without anyone telling me. I just know. So I will not ridicule your claim, Melpomaen. There are many things going on in this castle which I do not like; this kingdom is preparing to attack our people, and I wish to know why."

Melpomaen looked up, shyly, hardly daring to make eye-contact with Orophin. He felt so small and insignificant beside the warrior. Feronil's words had made it painfully clear to him that he was reaching for the stars - how insignificant would he feel beside Celeborn? The lord did not see anything in him. And how could he hope for Orophin's help? He was one of the Galadhrim - to him, Melpomaen must really seem a boring library mouse.

"We will give it two more days," Orophin finally decided, effectively stopping Feronil's chuckling. "Two days, not more. If I do not find any evidence of lord Celeborn's presence here, we will try to return to Imladris."

A smile spread over Melpomaen's face, and he would have hugged Orophin if the other Elf had not looked so terribly stern and intimidating.

"Thank you, my lord," he whispered, while Feronil groaned.

"I must leave now, or they will miss me from my work. You will stay here, both of you, and you will not leave this place until my return. Have I made myself clear?"

Melpomaen nodded enthusiastically, but Feronil shook his head.

"And you think this child here will leave by free will if you do not find lord Celeborn? I think you underestimate the stubbornness of youth, my lord."

Orophin shrugged at Feronil's objection, and cut off Melpomaen, who had just opened his mouth to protest.

"I am no stranger to stubborn youths, Master Feronil. And Master Melpomaen here had better be aware that he will leave Breon either by free will and on a horse, or bound and gagged on a mule. The decision is his alone."

With that, he put on his cloak again, pulling the hood down over his face, and left the small chamber to return to the castle.

Feronil rolled onto his front, propped himself up on his elbows and batted his lashes at Melpomaen.

"Oh please, fair one - when he returns to tell us that he has found no trace of lord Celeborn, put up a fight. Shake your fists, stomp your feet and, if possible, roll on the floor and throw a tantrum. I would so love to see you bound and gagged. Ah, I am delighted by lord Orophin - he is so ... masterful."

Melpomaen glared daggers at the advisor.

"You are evil!" he hissed, but Feronil only giggled.

"Oh no, I am not. Only bored."

The young Elf decided that there was no point in further answering Feronil's teasing, so he looked out of the window. It was not difficult to spot Orophin - he towered a head above the other cloaked figures who tried to find their way on the muddy street without getting too drenched in the rain. Melpomaen watched him, and then he held his breath.

Without saying another word, Melpomaen grabbed his cloak, put on his scarf and rushed out of the door, completely ignoring Feronil's questions.

There could be no doubt: somebody had been following Orophin.

* * *

The king's bedchamber was dark, save for the fire burning in the fireplace. In the flickering light, Elcallon could see the tall, naked figure stretched out on the bed, holding a goblet of deep red liquid, occasionally taking a sip. It was wine, sweet, heavy wine from the south. It always was.

The king was tall for a man, his body covered with the scars of many battles. Elcallon had known him since the cold winter day of his birth. The curious child had become a wild youngster, then a fearless warrior and king, and had finally changed from friend into lover, two winters back. Elcallon enjoyed his company and the intimacy; he felt comfortable in the king's presence. This was what love was all about, after all. Or had he been wrong there?

"You have come, my lovely one - this is a good night then, after all." Elcallon heard the familiar, amused voice, and bowed his head.

"I always answer your call, my king."

"Yes, that is true. And I'm happy about it. Now don't stand there, Elcallon - step into the light so I may enjoy your beauty. I don't have your Elven eyes and can't see in the darkness."

Obediently, Elcallon moved closer, stopping in front of the fire. The king wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, and the Elf shed his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on a chair. The man smiled, taking in the tall figure, admiring the long, light brown hair which reached halfway down the Elf's back.

"You really are beautiful beyond measure, my lovely one."

Under normal circumstances, this compliment would have delighted the Elf, but now he hesitated a moment before walking over to the large bed and slipping under the covers. Strong arms drew him closer to the warm body of the man, and a gentle kiss was pressed upon his temple.

"You look so serious today, my beautiful. Is anything amiss? Is there something you need? Speak freely, you know that I will give you anything that you long for - including myself."

Elcallon forced a smile, then he cupped the man's face with his hand.

"Indeed, there is something I long for, my king - but I do not know if it is within your power to give it to me."

Surprised, the man frowned, but at the same time, he leaned into the touch. No matter what the temperature outside, the Elf always had warm hands. A treat on a rainy, cold day like this.

"Not within my power? Now I'm curious. What could this possibly be?"

Elcallon ran his tongue over his lips to wet the dry skin, and he worded his plea as careful as possible.

"My king, I know that your people hate my kin. But after all these years, they might understand that neither I nor my friends have done anything wrong. We will always feel guilty for the cowardly deeds of our predecessors - but maybe they could forgive us? I - would like to see the world, my king. I want to see what the other side of the river looks like, I want..."

"Shhh," the king interrupted, putting a finger on the Elf's lips. "My lovely one - as much as I would love to fulfil your wish, it is not possible. The memory of our people has not yet forgotten the treachery of your kinsmen. The very moment people saw you they would get their swords, knives and pitchforks and bring you to a quick death. I will not risk this. You are my dearest possession, and never will I allow any harm to befall you."

Elcallon stiffened in the king's arms.

"I am your possession?"

A quiet laughter rumbled through the chest of the man, and Elcallon felt the strong arms tightening around him even more.

"Ah but yes, my lovely one. Why, have you already forgotten that I was the first one to claim you? Here, in this bed? You are mine, for as long as I live - and I know how to keep my own."

Elcallon felt the touch of the man's hands on his skin. Knowing touches, aimed to please him. He had always been a willing and eager participant in this game, had even convinced himself that he felt love for the man. Maybe he had done so, at one point, but now, he resisted the touch of the king's hands, and when the man tried to kiss him, the Elf turned his head aside.

"I wish to leave."

"Leave? Why do you want to leave? Are you upset with me for denying your wish?"

Elcallon was not a skilled liar. He feared to look into the man's eyes and reveal the truth, so he shaded his eyes with his hand.

"I am not upset. I am merely disappointed. Please forgive me - I feel very tired today."

For a moment, the eyes of the man narrowed, and Elcallon noticed it well when he peeked through his fingers. Then the expression disappeared, and he saw that his lover was worried.

"I knew the weather was too rough to ride out, but you wouldn't listen. But if you are tired, we shall sleep. I will not have you leaving, though, I need you close. Your presence gives me peaceful sleep and powerful dreams."

Knowing that insisting on leaving would arouse the king's suspicion, Elcallon agreed. The man pulled him closer, and nuzzled his neck. Soon enough, his even breathing told Elcallon that the man had fallen asleep.

But the Elf stayed awake all night long, and by daybreak, he had come to a decision.

* * *

Galadriel secretly wondered how long it would take for Mount Doom to erupt. Mount Doom had been standing behind her, spitting fire and smoke ever since the meeting began, and she hoped that Rúmil would speak up soon, otherwise he would probably combust with frustration.

And who could blame him. For three hours already she had listened to the three main leaders of her army who had put forward one insane plan after the other regarding the proposed attack on the enemy in Tíngel forest. Celeborn's sharp mind and battle experience were sorely missed.

Galadriel had to hide a smile. She knew, with all the experience of her age, what to do and which strategy to choose, but it was time for Rúmil to gain his first experience in leadership. All she had to do was to give him a gentle lead, and advise along the way.

And she would have to keep him from strangling her most loyal advisors, of course.

"I say: let us attack in classical formation", one said. "Warriors on horseback up front and on the sides, to protect the flanks. In-between them we have..."

"Nay, nay, nay! That would be all wrong! The warriors on horseback need to ride up front, agreed, but not on the sides! What are you thinking!" another interrupted.

"I had already led armies when you were still an Elfling clutching to your nana's robes. Do not try to teach me how to make a formation."

"Led armies? Yes, I remember! You were the one who got lost in a swamp and had to be rescued by a family of Dwarves! Indeed, just the leader we need!"

"That is a lie! Outrage! I demand an apology! And anyway, they were not Dwarves but Hobbits, and..."

"ENOUGH!"

Rúmil's voice thundered through the room, and the advisors and warriors ceased their argument in the middle of their sentences. They all stared at the warrior who was standing behind a mildly smiling Galadriel, his eyes blazing with anger.

"With all due respect, my lords, you do not have the slightest clue what you are talking about. None of you has ever been to Tíngel. You do not know what or who to expect there. But I have been there, and I know! Warriors on horseback? No horse could make it far enough into the forest to be of any use!"

The eldest of the advisors straightened up, pulled his robe back into place and waved his hand at Rúmil.

"Quiet, you silly Elfling. Have you not learned discipline? You should only speak when you are asked to do so, and even then it would be better if you kept quiet. My lady Galadriel, I do not think that this young Elf is a suitable personal guard for you."

Rúmil opened his mouth, without a doubt to say something very rude, but Galadriel got up, so he shut it again. He wished he had the ability to kick his own backside - of course this had been an unforgivable breach of protocol, and Galadriel could not tolerate it without losing face.

"My dear lords," she began, "I fully agree with you. As a personal guard, this young Elf is not suitable, so I will relieve him of this duty."

She could feel Rúmil's disappointment and anger, it radiated from him like heat from a fireplace. Oh, the young hot-head! Would he ever learn to submit to protocol and rules? Probably not. One more reason to love him.

"To keep such a capable and skilled warrior here by my side would be very selfish of me. So I have decided that Rúmil of Lórien shall lead our troops into battle. Serve him as you would serve me. Trust him with your life, he will not disappoint you."

Had a flea coughed this very moment, one could have heard it. Deadly silence hung over the room, and Rúmil's eyes were almost popping out of their sockets.

"My lady," her chief advisor began, "it is my duty to protest. He is too young! He knows nothing! He has no discipline and has only experienced battle as a plain soldier. What can he know about strategy and leading warriors? Nothing! This is madness, my lady!"

Galadriel listened carefully, then she folded her hands.

"My dear lord. I have heard your arguments, thought about them carefully and decided to ignore them."

She gave him her sweetest smile, then gestured to Rúmil to come forward.

"Now then, Rúmil - let us hear _your_ strategy."

Rúmil, still in a daze, stumbled to the table, suddenly feeling very small under the disapproving looks of the advisors and warriors. But then he thought of Tíngel, of what had happened to Orophin, remembering how his pyre had burned, and when he began to speak, his voice was steady and sure.

"As I mentioned before, we must attack on foot. Furthermore, I recommend that our soldiers do not wear their armour."

Loud protests began, but Rúmil stayed firm in his statement, not willing to argue about it. Galadriel let the voices die down, then she addressed him.

"Rúmil - please explain to us why you wish to send our Elves into battle unguarded. I am not willing to take such a risk for my people without need or reason."

Rúmil looked at her a little uncomfortably, not sure how to explain his reasoning to her. Then he saw the ceremonial suits of armour which were lined up along the back of the council chamber, and quickly walked to them to demonstrate his theory.

"Our armour looks pretty, and has certainly saved many lives. But see this." He pointed at the stomach area. "To ensure the archers can use their weapons, this part of the armour is very weak. It does not take much strength to drive a sword through this thin hide - I have seen many of our archers die because they were attacked at exactly this point. And while the rest of the armour protects, it also limits our ability to move quickly, a skill which can be vital in battle. Over all, I think the disadvantages outweigh the advantages."

Galadriel walked around the table, to his side, and studied the armour. Her fingers touched the metal and the fabric, lingering over the stomach area. By Elbereth - Rúmil was right! She looked up and winked at him, then she turned towards her advisors.

"My dear noble Elves - he is right. So order the troops to wear their normal uniforms, and make sure that those who have served in Tíngel inform their comrades about their experiences and the dangers to expect. I do not wish to lose even one more of our Elves in that cursed forest."

The advisors and generals growled and hissed and ruffled their fur, but as expected, they obeyed Galadriel. And eventually, they would obey Rúmil as well. Heads were bowed, polite words spoken, and then they left the room, probably to spend the rest of the day wondering about Galadriel's sanity.

She smiled. Rúmil had not disappointed her, and when she turned around to the Elf who was now leaning on the wall and wiping cold sweat off his brow, she actually giggled.

"Well done!"

"Well done?" he gasped, shuddering. "Why have you done this? I am nothing but a mere soldier, I cannot lead a whole army!"

Galadriel caressed his cheek.

"You can do so much more than you think, Rúmil."

"You overestimate me."

"You remind me a lot of your father, my love."

Rúmil looked up, surprised.

"You knew him?"

"Ah, you forget that I know every Elf within my realm - and more. Yes, I knew him, very well. So often he feared to be incapable of mastering a task, to be weak and unworthy of his fate. But he never disappointed me."

Galadriel moved to the window, looking out over her beloved Lórien.

"No, he never disappointed me. He hurt me, countless times, and the Valar know he often failed. Following him was like walking blindfolded on the edge of a cliff, but I knew that, even if I should fall, he would be there to catch me."

Rúmil began to feel uncomfortable. He'd had no idea that Galadriel had known his father so well. And something was amiss here.

* * *

"Did you tell him?"

Amaris glanced up briefly from his arrows. He checked every single one - tomorrow they could decide his life or death, and he was not taking any risks.

Gil threw his cloak into a corner and ran both hands through his hair. It was damp from the drizzle and fog outside, and his clothes were covered with a thin layer of moisture as well.

"I did not have to - he already knew. His damned gift of foresight - I felt like an Elfling caught with his hand in the cookie jar."

Amaris continued checking his arrows but arched an eyebrow.

"It was not your hand, Gil - and I would not describe it as a cookie jar, either."

Gil towered in front of Amaris and snorted.

"If there had been a chance to snatch a cookie, at least all the trouble I got myself into would have been worthwhile! But no - it was you who got the cookie."

"Indeed. And you got the cream. So do not complain."

Gil growled, then he dropped down on the bedroll beside Amaris. For quite a while, he just sat there and watched the Mirkwood Elf's nimble fingers adjusting feathers.

"I am not complaining," he finally said, "but you know what it is like in a shop: if you have had your hand in the cookie jar, you have got to buy the cookie."

"And you do not want to buy it, I understand - just take a bite to find out if you like the taste."

Gil scratched his head.

"Oh I like the taste, very much. I ... have never tasted anything better."

Now Amaris dropped the arrow, and he looked at Gil. Once again, the king counted the 21 golden speckles in the Mirkwood Elf's green eyes, and he shook his head.

"Let us stop speaking in metaphors, please. I feel like a fool when you do this."

Amaris reached out and ran the back of his hand over Gil's cheek. The king could smell the scent of the bow wax on Amaris' fingers.

"Say it, Gil," he demanded.

"What?"

"That you want to buy the cookie."

"Would it be acceptable if I said that I love you instead?"

Amaris was now so close that Gil could feel his lips move on his skin when he spoke.

"I guess so. Still want the cookie?"

Gil found it difficult to answer, as Amaris lips were now firmly pressed on his. The kiss was gentle, almost shy in the beginning, but soon both warriors increased the pace and intensity. Gil finally moved his head back a little, gasping for breath.

"Is it wise to have such a meal before a battle? You know that one fights better on an empty stomach."

Amaris began to undo the lacings on Gil's jerkin none too gently, and shrugged.

"I have kept myself in condition, Sire. You can start your diet after the war."

With that, he pressed Gil down on the bedroll and kissed him passionately, his hands running over the strong body and making Gil's skin tingle.

"Agreed," Gil gasped, "and now feed me already, I am starving!"

Amaris straddled his hips, and there was a wicked and hungry gleam in his eyes.

"Now what a coincidence, Sire - so am I."

* * *  
Rúmil wore neither a bright cloak nor any other outward sign of his new rank. He was the leader because Galadriel had told the Galadhrim that he was.

He sat on the same horse he had ridden on many patrols through the Golden Woods, his sword was the same, and now he was expected to give a speech to encourage his warriors. He sighed - if anybody here needed encouragement it was him. But there were hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at him, some doubtful, others hopeful. This was his duty, and he had to do it, so he straightened up on his horse and addressed the troops.

"My fellow Galadhrim! I should probably make one of those motivating speeches I have heard so often in my life. I should tell you that you are expected to go out and fight and die for the Golden Wood, honour or duty. However, this is not what I will tell you."

Rúmil felt Galadriel's eyes on him, and her presence in his mind. He had no idea if she would approve of his words or not. He would find out soon enough.

"My kinsmen – I do not want you to die for anything. Life is much too precious, as I have learned, and it was a painful lesson. There is no glory in spending millennia in the Halls of Waiting while your family cries and mourns your death. So I say: let us ride to Tíngel. Let us free our good lord Celeborn and lord Glorfindel and make sure that the evil which is lurking in this forest will not cause our realm any further harm. I also say: try not to get killed in the process. Ehr… yes, I guess that was it then."

He scratched his head, then ran his hand through his hair. Despite the many warriors, there was silence. It would likely be only a matter of moments before somebody threw a rotten apple, and he swallowed hard.

It was one of the captains from the southern forest, Rúmil would remember later on. The Elf had walked slowly towards Rúmil, looking him up and down. Upon his arrival by the horse, he knelt down by Rúmil's side and lifted his bow up, presenting it to him.

"You lead us, and we will follow", he simply said, and bowed his head.

Rúmil, completely surprised and confused, bowed his head in acknowledgement. Then he looked up and almost fell off his horse.

In fact _all_ of the Galadhrim were kneeling and presenting their bows to him.

* * *

The faint grey of the very early morning hours crept into the tent, and Gil woke up. It took him a while to come to full awareness, but when he did, he noticed that he lay in Amaris' arms. He had to grin - not only because it felt really, really good to wake up next to the Mirkwood Elf, but also because it was usually him doing the holding. The reversed roles were definitely a good thing.

Ouch.

Gil winced when he shifted his weight.

As far as his backside was concerned, the good thing had its bad sides, too.

"Stop squirming. You did enough of that last night," a sleepy voice could be heard.

"Ah, you are among the living again."

"Surprisingly enough, yes. I do feel like I have been trampled by a Mumakil."

"You have such an unique way of complimenting me."

Amaris snorted, then he looked down at his lover.

"So, how are you feeling on this beautiful morning, Sire?"

Gil yawned, then he folded his arms over Amaris' chest, resting his chin on his hands.

"Now let me see - in a few hours, we will be engaged in a deadly fight with a Vala. Needless to say, our chances of survival are slim. I have broken the heart of somebody who is very dear to me, and cannot decide yet if I feel like a bastard because I did so or because I do not regret my decision. And on top of all that, I will have to _walk_ into battle, because thanks to your surprising talents I will not be able to sit down for at least three days. You know - better ask me again tomorrow."

Amaris laughed, and he caressed Gil's shoulders, his fingers dancing over his spine.

"It might be the wrong place and time to say this, but I am happy," he admitted, never interrupting his caresses. "I am happy because I am here with you, finally, and I am allowed to touch you the way I do.

"Why did you never say anything? All those years - I had no idea."

Amaris considered the question a moment, then he shrugged.

"These things happen when they are supposed to, not when we want them to. Maybe the time was not right. Now it is."

Gil tried to imagine what it must have been like for Amaris, to hide his feelings for so many years, and he shied away from it. This train of thought was leading him into a dark place, a place of pain and many secretly shed tears, and he did not yet feel able to deal with it. So he pressed a gentle kiss on Amaris’ shoulder, then he followed the runes and signs on Amaris' chest with his finger.

"Will you tell me one day what these signs mean? I hope they remind you of some heroic battles and valiant deeds, not past lovers."

Again, the light laughter of the Mirkwood Elf was heard.

"Do not tell me you are jealous - have you forgotten that it was I who wrote 'Mirkwood Love Secrets'? I hope you did not expect me to be inexperienced, my king. But yes, I will tell you one day the meaning of the signs. I will also have to ask the healer to add a new one."

"A rune for the upcoming battle?"

Amaris grinned when he saw Gil's questioning expression.

"No. I thought of an arrow, pointing from my navel to my groin, as a reminder of the glorious night when I conquered the former High King of the Noldo."

"Oh, so you see this as a battle, then?" Gil snarled in faked outrage. "You might have won a battle, Amaris, but the war is not lost for me yet!"

Before Gil realized what was happening, Amaris had rolled him onto his back and was pinning him down on the bedroll. A mischievous smile played around his lips.

"Are you certain about that, _Sire_? Do you not know that every relationship is a never ending battle?"

"That is not how I see it," Gil protested, trying to free himself, but the Mirkwood Elf was surprisingly strong and would have none of it. "I see a partnership as a matter between equals."

Amaris nuzzled his neck and kissed his jaw, making the king squirm.

"Oh, there I agree with you. Equal is good. Equal is very good. But," he purred, his lips now very close to Gil's ear, "do you not think it would be more fun if you would submit to me? At least sometimes?"

Gil stopped struggling and looked up into those amazing eyes which were the first thing about Amaris that had captured him.

"One day you will be the death of me, you wicked creature."

Amaris grinned.

"I promise it will be a joyful death, my beloved."

"You know, this is the first time you have called me that."

"What?"

"'Beloved'."

"Do you not like it?"

Amaris let go of Gil and looked at him, a little worried, but the king smiled.

"Oh, I do. Very much, actually. I think I could get used to it."

"Beloved."

It was not only a word. There was so much more to it - and for the first time, Gil really, truly understood the meaning of it. He stroked Amaris' hair, then he cupped his face between his large hands.

"Amaris - today, we will go to battle. We know that our chances are very poor, it would be foolish to believe otherwise. I want you to... I... Amaris, should anything happen to you, I want you to know that I will follow you."

"And I will follow you - beloved," the Mirkwood Elf replied, then he rested his head on Gil's chest. So the two lay for a long while, Gil stroking Amaris' head, Amaris occasionally pressing a gentle kiss on his lover's skin, till the sound of a horn told them that it was time to prepare for battle.

* * *

Tarmon was the master of the smiths, and when the guard took him aside to ask for a certain favour, he was more than willing to oblige. He didn't care much for scruples or morals as long as he was paid well, and at the moment, he would have paid many pieces of silver to get rid of Alandel the Skilled. No doubt, the man deserved his title. Alandel's swords were the best; he was strong and seemed tireless, and so, within a week, he had become the most productive of all the weapon smiths.

This was not good - already, the master of the guards had taken notice of the skilled smith, and Tarmon had no wish to see somebody else take his place. And Alandel was annoying on many levels. He didn't join in their drinking or gambling, and when one of the smiths had tried to hit the water boy with the ladle, Alandel had held the man's arm back with such force that the bone broke.

Tarmon shook his head. There was so much work to be done, and Alandel had injured one of his own guild over a mere water boy! They came twelve a dozen, these orphans, and he only had to pay the orphanage a few copper pieces for one. Sometimes a boy got ill and died, and had to be replaced, but mostly, they were good workers and didn't demand much attention beside a kick or a good hiding.

But now Alandel always seemed to be where the water boy was, and he was too tall and too strong to mess with, so this last week had been one of the most painless and pleasant in the child's life.

Tarmon scratched his head. He had already considered arranging a little accident to get rid of Alandel, but now a much better opportunity had arisen, and one he even got paid for.

The man bit down on the piece of silver to check its validity and grinned. This was the type of business he liked!

* * *

For the umpteenth time, Elrohir ran his shoulder against the massive oak door. It had not moved an inch, and now he really felt like he would cry any moment.

This one had to see to believe - locked up in a padded room for no other reason than telling the truth! By his own brother! Elrohir slid down the wall and on the floor, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his face. Why did nobody believe him? Could they not see that he was perfectly fine and sane?

The door was unbolted, and when Elrohir looked up, ready to tell Celeron to take his tray of food and place it where the sun did not shine, he saw Námo slipping into the room. The Vala pulled the door closed behind him, and looked Elrohir curiously up and down.

For the first time, Elrohir could really see Námo. He had picked up the fact that he was supposed to be a Plains Elf from a discussion between Celeron and one of his assistants, and some rather scary details about the Elf's gender had been revealed. So far, Elrohir had never really thought about the differences between the Plains Elves and all others. Yes, they could bear children, but the mechanics of this process had never held any interest for Elrohir.

He was very tall, and very lean. The arms ended in long, narrow hands. Fingers with almost claw-like nails. Black, unkempt and unbraided hair. The face had a wild beauty. The movements of the body like those of a wild cat. The soft, brown eyes were a surprise - he would have expected the odd yellow green that could be seen in Rabbit's eyes.

Námo wore clothes which Elrohir identified as Erestor’s old hunting gear. The advisor was almost the only one to wear black garb, and while the breeches were a little short and too loose around the hips, Elrohir was still reminded of the vision he had had of Námo on that fateful day when Námo had come to demand the return of Orophin, Gil-galad and Amaris.

The Vala smiled, revealing sharp, pearly white teeth. Elrohir did not know if this smile was supposed to be reassuring or frightening. He only knew that this was a situation not even the weirdest dream could have provided.

"Why do you torture me so?" he asked, "I have never caused you any harm, and yet it seems you will not be satisfied until my life is destroyed."

Námo's eyes grew wide, and he quickly crossed the room to sit opposite Elrohir's.

"But I do not wish you any harm, child. Would I be here if it was my intention to hurt you?"

Elrohir tried to shift out of the Vala's reach.

"I know nothing about your intentions, lord Námo. I only know that, since you decided to show yourself to me, my friends and family consider me insane. I have lost my lover, and now I have even lost my liberty, and all because of you."

Námo looked genuinely unhappy.

"I am most sorry, Elrohir - I would not have thought your kin to be so suspicious and fearful."

"Be assured that I myself am far from pleased with the treatment I have experienced within the last days! And this is your fault entirely! Why are you here now?"

Námo considered the question for a moment.

"Even we have to respect Eru's law, lest chaos ensue, my child. I ignored this fundamental rule, and so I was punished."

"What did you do? And how were you punished?" Elrohir asked, his natural curiosity winning out over his anger.

"What I have done is none of your concern, child. And my punishment is being here."

"Here? But you were here before."

Once again, the Vala seemed to talk in riddles, and Elrohir felt a headache coming on.

"I was banished from my realm, cursed to live here among you, as one of your kin."

It took Elrohir a moment to process this information.

"Are you trying to tell me that you are alive?"

Námo looked at his hand and wiggled his fingers, then he shrugged.

"Alive - yes, I suppose that is the proper term for my state. I never thought it would feel so strange. It is a very restricted state."

Such a thought had never crossed Elrohir's mind, and at first, he could not make any sense of the Vala's remark. But then it dawned on him that the Valar were spirits - free to be whoever and whatever they wanted. Being forced to take up one form and keep it must be very restricting, indeed.

"You - you said you were one of my kin. But - you are of Rabbit's kin."

For a brief moment, Elrohir imagined he saw an expression of hurt in Námo's brown eyes. Had he said something wrong? Had he hurt the Vala?

"I used to be the one to bear the gift of life, then I became the one to take it back. And is that not what this race does? They take life, they give it. They represent the circle of life. I would not have chosen this particular form, but Manwë does nothing without reason. Do you find me repulsive?"

"Repulsive?"

Elrohir was taken aback at this question. Repulsive? He remembered the conversation he had overheard, and Celeron had indeed sounded very repulsed. 'Abnormalities' he had called Rabbit and Master Erestor. From conversations he had held with Elladan and his father, he understood that the Plains Elves might look male, but were not. Or not fully. They were not female, either. Actually, Elrohir had not the slightest idea what they really were. He only knew that he admired Rabbit, loved Master Erestor and - Námo? What were his feelings regarding the Vala? He was in awe, frightened, impressed, annoyed, angry, all this and much more, but repulsed?

"No. No I do not. You scare me. But I am not repulsed."

Again, Námo looked down at his hands, then he touched his face and held a strand of his black hair in front of his eyes.

"I scare you. I know, for I can smell your fear. But may I still ask you a favour?"

Plains Elf or not, this was still the Vala of Death, and Elrohir was not one to take any risks, so he nodded, though hesitatingly. Námo smiled, knowing well what thoughts were racing through the young Elf's head.

"Can I touch you? Now that I am alive and can feel, I would very much like to know what it is like to touch another living being."

"Are you sure I will not drop dead on the spot if you touch me?" Elrohir asked, a little suspicious. For a brief moment, the thought that this might be a trick of Námo’s to lure him into the Halls of Waiting crossed his mind.

"I am. I will not hurt you, I am just - curious."

Elrohir decided that, so far, the Vala had been very annoying and confusing, but had never caused him any harm. So he nodded.

Námo smiled, then his hand gingerly touched Elrohir's arm. Immediately he pulled the hand away again, gasping in surprise.

"This is incredible!"

Again he reached out to the young Elf, and this time, his hand remained on Elrohir's arm.

Elrohir did not dare to move; he stared down at the sharp finger nails of the other like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.

"You are so warm to touch - and so soft."

Something about the way Námo talked reminded Elrohir of a child. Like an Elfling exploring the world for the first time, Námo was now experiencing the miracle of life. Elrohir wondered what it must be like for the Vala, to stay here, on Arda, restricted to the confines of a body, all alone.

"I remember that you held me once," he finally said, while Námo ran his hand up and down Elrohir's arm. "I felt - safe."

Námo stopped his movements.

"You remember?"

"How could I forget?"

"Was it warm and soft, too?"

Elrohir had to smile.

"I remember warmth and velvet, yes."

"Will I understand one day?"

Again, it was the question of a child, and maybe this was the reason Elrohir moved forward, gently put his arms around Námo and pulled him close. He held him now as Námo had held him, back then, and after a while Námo relaxed in the embrace and snuggled up to Elrohir, who tightened his hold. Námo was just the right size and weight to fit perfectly into Elrohir's arms, and there was a scent of nutmeg around him which Elrohir found most pleasing. The Vala's head came to rest on his shoulder, and he felt Námo's breath on his neck.

"This is why you live in pairs, is it not?"

The question surprised Elrohir, but he did not loosen his hold.

"It is one of the reasons. There is more to being a couple than keeping each other warm in winter."

"That was not what I meant." Námo looked up at Elrohir, his brown eyes full of trust.

"I do not know what you are talking about then," Elrohir said.

Námo rubbed his cheek on the soft suede of Elrohir's jerkin and closed his eyes. Silently, he smiled, for he knew that this was a blatant lie.

* * *

It had been a foolish plan, and Elcallon knew it - knew it the very moment the guards caught up with him and brought him back to the castle. Toban had looked at him with sad eyes, then disappeared into his chambers to cry. Why had the foolish Elf not listened to him?

Elcallon had considered following Toban's plan, but he had worried that, if it should fail, his friends would suffer. And he would have had to leave the Elf who called himself Celeborn behind - blind and deaf as he was, he would not have stood a chance of escaping.

So Elcallon had tried to flee during his weekly ride to the river. The horse, sensing his rider's fear, had shied, and so it had not taken the guards long to catch up with him. And now he was in the dungeon, chained to the wall like a dog, and his king and lover was standing in front of him, very angry and disappointed.

"You have been most ungrateful. I and my family have protected your life and the lives of your friends for many centuries, we have made great sacrifices and given you everything you wanted and needed."

"That is not true," Elcallon protested, "I am very grateful. But you have lied to us, kept us prisoner, locked us up and robbed us of our liberty!"

The king shook his head.

"It was all in your own interest. You don't know what the world is like out there, but I do. Here you are safe, nobody will hurt you, and nobody will hunt you. I need you, here with me. I can't allow that you leave me, to go to a place where I can't follow. So you will stay here and consider your situation. Give me your word that you will not try to run away again, and you will be allowed to live in your old home, and I shall forgive you."

"My king, please..." Elcallon begged, hoping against better knowledge that the man would finally see some sense, but he was cut off.

"I will hear no more of this. The decision is yours now."

The king and the advisor left the prison cell, leaving the distraught Elf behind.

Outside, the king took his servant aside.

"Make sure he gets all he needs. Remove the chains tomorrow, I don't want to see him hurt. Nobody is allowed to see him or to talk to him, you are responsible with your head for this."

"Of course, my king," the advisor replied, bowing deeply, "a most unpleasant situation."

"Indeed. While I care greatly for him, I must see that my law is obeyed, and any disrespect must be punished."

With that, he left, and the advisor waited a moment before returning to the prison cell. He stepped closer to Elcallon, who tried to move away, but the chain was too short; he couldn't escape.

"For well nigh 30 years I have waited for a chance to finally look at you, Elf. And I see why my king is so besotted with you."

The man ran his hands through Elcallon's hair, ignoring the disgusted expression on the Elf's face.

"I have not given you permission to touch me!"

The advisor grinned.

"Permission? Oh please - you can't be that naïve, can you? You are a prisoner. It's up to the king's mercy whether you will keep your head or not. So you had better be a little more friendly towards me and more generous with your affection, otherwise your stay here might become rather uncomfortable."

Again he reached out, this time trying to touch the Elf's face, but before his fingers touched the soft skin, Elcallon's teeth bit deep into the advisor's hand, drawing blood. The man yelped, cradling his hand, then he backhanded the Elf, leaving an angry red welt on his face.

"Whatever happens to you now, Elf - you are responsible and deserve it. My king wants to see the laws respected, and that's what I will do now!"

The angry man rushed out of the door, and Elcallon heard the key turn in the lock.

It was dark, cold; he was alone and hurt. Never in his life had he felt so lost, and as there was nobody to see it, he allowed himself the comfort of crying.

* * *

For a while, Erestor had tried to reason with Glorfindel. He had talked to him about their life, about their child, about their love. He had silently begged the Valar for some mercy, but none of his efforts showed any success - Glorfindel continued to curse him and to stare at him with hatred in his eyes.

Finally, Nonfindel could stand it no more, and had gagged his brother. Erestor protested, but Nonfindel was not willing to take any more abuse from Fin, under a spell or not. He was very concerned for the advisor's well-being. The situation was taking its toll, and he had noticed how Erestor touched his stomach and winced when he thought he was unwatched. If only they could make it to the camp of the Lórien Elves sooner - as he had to share the horse with Fin, who did his best to slow them down even more with his constant struggling, their journey back took much longer, and he feared that something would happen to the advisor or the little one. The wound on Erestor's shoulder was healing nicely, but the wound in his heart, so Nonfindel reckoned, was still raw, open and bleeding.

Not once had Erestor raised his voice or become angry with his husband. It was obvious to see that Fin's behaviour went beyond Erestor's understanding, and as the advisor bared his soul in his helpless attempt to awaken Fin's memory, the warrior had a wide choice of weak spots to attack.

"Fin, please remember - we have a son, Estorel. You helped to bring him into this world! How can you have forgotten him?"

"I had only one son, and you murdered him," Fin screamed.

"No, no, Fin, this is all wrong. Please remember, beloved - yes, you had a son, Luinil, and he died in a battle many centuries ago. But he was reborn, in our son, Estorel. You must know this, Fin, have you never seen it in his eyes?"

"Liar! How perverted can you be, using my dead son to try to fool me! Give me a sword, you coward, and I will help your memory."

Erestor closed his eyes for a moment. If only he wouldn't cry - not here, not now! Hearing Fin laugh at his tears would be the final blow, one he could not take. So he only shook his head sadly, and returned to his bedroll. His back hurt, and he had a splitting headache, but the worst was the pain in his heart. This Elf looked like Fin, and he smelled like Fin; without a doubt, he also felt like Fin - but never had he expected to hear such cruel remarks from his husband!

A sharp pain in his lower body made him gasp, and he sat down gingerly on the bedroll. If only the little one was healthy!

"Here, have some Lembas, Erestor."

Nonfindel sat down beside the advisor, and offered him the bread and some strips of dried meat. But Erestor refused.

"I am not hungry, Nonfindel. Give it to Fin, he has not eaten anything all day long."

"That would be a waste, Erestor. He will not eat anything we offer him, because he fears we wish to poison his magnificent body. So I am most afraid, dear brother in law: this is yours, eat it."

Erestor sighed, then he thought of the little one and managed to eat a few bites of Lembas for the child's sake. Nonfindel watched him carefully, and when he was satisfied with Erestor's food intake, he moved a little closer.

"It might be a personal question, Master Erestor, but I am curious and I hope you will forgive me: is it true? Has the fëa of Luinil been reborn in Estorel?"

Erestor nodded. He broke off a piece of meat and offered it to Glorfinkle, who greedily pecked at it.

"It is true."

"Do you think... would you allow me to visit you one day to see your son? I loved my nephew very much, and I did not see him before he died."

"Of course. You are his uncle, after all. Had I known of your existence..."

Nonfindel rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, how could I forget. Glorfindel probably wanted to spare you the pain of making my acquaintance."

Erestor took another bite of the Lembas.

"Why have you become estranged? I am very surprised to learn Glorfindel holds such resentment towards his family."

Nonfindel shrugged.

"I am not a warrior. I have never had any interest in warfare. I preferred paint or clay to bow and sword. A stance difficult to defend if you are born into a family of heroes who slay a cave troll for lunch and two goblins for dinner. He thought I would not do his house much honour, and never failed to remind me that I was not a "true Elf" and rather useless to our people. He had nothing but mockery for the arts and literature, so I was more than a little surprised when I learned that he married you."

"That does not sound like Fin at all," Erestor murmured. He put the Lembas aside. He was not hungry anymore.

"Maybe not like the Fin you know, but certainly like the Fin _I_ knew, Erestor. But we should not discuss this now, those times are over. Rest, Erestor - you are tired, both of you."

Obediently, Erestor lay down, and Nonfindel pulled an extra cover over the advisor. He was very worried - Erestor did not look well at all, and his strength was failing. When he was sure that the other Elf had fallen asleep, he walked over to the tree he had tied Fin to, and crouched down in front of the warrior.

"You have been a miserable brother, Glorfindel. You have been a pain in the backside all of your life, and the only reason for me to help your husband is that I really like him. So, you had better keep this filthy mouth of yours closed in future, or I will gag you for the rest of the journey."

Glorfindel snorted.

"Do you think me scared? Gag me if you want, but it will not change my opinion. I curse you and the spawn from Mordor you have with you. How stupid can you be, trying to make me believe he is a female with child! Do you think me blind?"

"No, dear brother, I do not think you blind. I think you an idiot. And no, your husband is not a female. I have no idea what he is, but he carries your child. And I will not allow you to harm either of them. You know - I think I will gag you anyway. It is so wonderful to shut you up."

With that, he fixed the gag in Glorfindel's mouth again and went to a large oak. Quickly, he climbed the tree and settled himself down comfortably on a branch.

Tonight, he would keep watch.

* * *  
It was clear that the advisor was enjoying the situation, and would stretch it out for as long as possible. First he had shown Elcallon the iron.

"Do you see this? This is the emblem of Breon, the eagle. In days of old, we used it to mark our property - horses, cows, slaves. Unfortunately, it has gone out of fashion. In your case, however, I think a constant reminder of whose property you are is in order, and I'm sure my king will agree with me."

Elcallon had stared down at the iron, not really understanding what it all meant until the smith began to heat it in the fire. He began to panic and struggle in his chains, but the prison guards had made sure that there was no way for him to escape.

"It will be a painful lesson, no doubt, but one you will never forget. It's all in your own interest, you see." Turning to the smith, he asked: "How long?"

The other shrugged. "One minute, then it's hot enough."

"Good. We don't want to leave our guest here waiting."

The advisor walked over to the Elf, and began to unlace his breeches.

"I wish I could do this under more pleasurable circumstances, but I guess I can't be choosy," he snickered, running his hand over the Elf's now exposed hip. "Are you ready, smith?"

"Yes," the man replied, "hold him still, or we’ll have to do this twice."

The red-hot iron came closer, and Elcallon screamed like he had never screamed before.

* * *  
"Bloody hell - what's going on in there?" the advisor's servant asked the guard on duty, "Are they slaughtering a pig?"

The guard grinned.

"Naw - they're having a little fun with the king's Elf."

The servant looked puzzled.

"The Elf is in there? But why was I asked to bring a smith along? This is a secret, passed on from family to family! He's neither a guard nor a noble!"

"How do I know," the guard shrugged, "I guess once it's done..." He broke off and made a "cut-throat" gesture.

"Oh. I see. Yes, I guess that's the best way to keep a secret."

Again, the guard grinned, and he slapped the servant's back.

"Good thinking, friend! Dead men don't talk."

A terrible scream of pain could be heard, and even the guard, who had seen a lot and couldn't be shocked by many things, paled.

"Are you sure you will have to dispose of only one body?" the servant finally asked, staring at the door of the prison cell with big eyes.

* * *

Elcallon was convinced that he would lose his mind any moment. It was horrible, nothing he could ever have imagined. It was too much for him to process, and he wished he could lose consciousness and escape reality, but there was no such mercy.

It had been quick, but certainly very painful. The advisor didn't expect it, so his face still wore a rather surprised expression. As he lay there, now pinned to the ground by the iron which had been rammed right through his middle, he looked like one of the butterflies Toban had collected as a child. The smith looked down at the dead man, and if there was any expression at all on his face, it was satisfaction.

Finally, Elcallon found his voice again.

"Why have you done this?"

The smith stepped over the body without wasting another glance, and crouched down beside his bag, rummaging through it for some tools.

"Because he deserved it," was the short, dry answer. The man found what he had been looking for and began to work on Elcallon's chains. In short time, the shackles fell to the ground, and the Elf leaned on the wall for support. His legs suddenly felt weak, and he rubbed his sore wrists.

The smith cupped Elcallon's chin, and looked at him.

"What is your name, my friend?" he asked in Elcallon's mother tongue, and the Elf's eyes widened.

"You speak my tongue?"

"Yes. But you do not seem to speak it very well," the smith replied in Westron.

"No. No. I only remember a little - my name is Elcallon. Who are you? Why are you here?"

The smith smiled, and his stern face immediately became very fair. He reached up to his head and took off the hat. Short hair of the same colour as Celeborn's was revealed, and Elcallon gasped when he saw the two elegantly pointed ears.

"My name is Orophin. And I am here to take you home."

* * *

"Cut his bonds."

Nonfindel spun around, staring at the advisor in disbelief.

"But..."

"I said: cut his bonds."

Erestor's voice was tired, but one look at the dark-haired Elf and Nonfindel knew that there was no option but to obey. So he crouched down behind his brother, and took his knife out of its sheath.

"If you think that I will fall for this trick, you are mistaken," Glorfindel spat, glaring at Erestor with obvious hate. "You think I will trust you, believe that you are a friend. But I will not! The moment I am free, I will kill you, Erestor. I hate you, more than words could tell. I hate you! Hate you!"

Nonfindel, the knife in his hand, hesitated. What should he do if Glorfindel attacked Erestor? He could not just stand by and see his brother in his madness slaughter his husband and unborn child! But on the other hand, he knew Glorfindel well enough to see that the only way to stop the Balrog-slayer was to kill him. And this he would not do - no matter what the circumstances.

"Do it."

It was a command, and with a deep sigh, Nonfindel obeyed.

Two cuts, and Glorfindel was free. He glared at Erestor while he rubbed his sore wrists.

"Get up." Erestor ordered, and after a moment of consideration, Glorfindel got to his feet. He was confused - he did not know what to expect, that much was obvious, and Nonfindel prayed to every Vala and Forest Spirit to keep his brother from doing something really stupid.

Erestor looked at Glorfindel for a while without speaking. Never in his long life had Nonfindel seen such sadness as was now visible on the advisor's face. And such love. In that moment he understood how deeply Erestor really cared for Glorfindel, and his heart contracted painfully. Not only because he hurt for and with Erestor, but also because he felt jealous - yes, Erestor's pain must have been terrible, but how blessed was he to know such love. Unlike him.

The advisor drew his sword, looked down at it for a moment, then turned it around and offered it, hilt first, to Glorfindel.

"It was your wish to see me dead, Glorfindel. And it is my wish now, too, for I cannot continue to live this way. You have been my night, my day, my heart and soul - without you, I am nothing. So end this, now. You have my permission, and nobody shall ever hold you responsible for your deed."

Glorfindel hesitated for a moment, then he reached for the sword. Nonfindel watched the scene, unable to move - it was as if magic had removed his ability to react. All he could do was stare in terror.

The blade slipped through Erestor's hand, slicing the palm open in the process. It was a deep cut, but the advisor did not seem to notice. Glorfindel took a firm grip on the hilt.

"You are so predictable, Erestor. Why, did you think I would be impressed by this performance? You should know better."

Erestor let his cloak slip from his shoulders, then he removed his belt. It fell onto the grass, followed by Erestor's twin knives. The advisor was now unarmed.

"Make an end, Glorfindel. Please."

The late afternoon sun reflected from the blade when Glorfindel raised the sword high over his head. Nonfindel cried out and Erestor closed his eyes.

With a scream, Glorfindel swung the blade and attacked.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Erestor lost consciousness before Glorfindel's blade drove into the ground beside him. The warrior let go of the weapon, and in an irritated gesture, he pushed his hair back from his face. Glorfindel looked down at the still figure – Erestor was pale as death, his eyes vacant, and the bulge of his stomach was a bizarre contrast to his otherwise overly lean body. The black hair looked dull, and the wound he had inflicted on the advisor's shoulder was bleeding again.

"Cursed be your name – why could I not do it?" Glorfindel groaned, and he looked very tired all of a sudden – tired and devastated.

"You could not do it because, amazingly enough, there seems to be some sense left in the pumpkin you carry around on your neck," Nonfindel growled when his heart decided to continue beating and he rushed to Erestor's side. He rolled up his cloak and put it under Erestor's head, then splashed some water from his water skin over the other Elf's face. Erestor groaned, and woke up.

"Are you feeling better?"

It took a while for Erestor to realize where he was and what had happened. He was alive - and he felt the child stir erratically. Erestor let out a sigh of relief – the Elfling was alive.

"Yes. Give me a few minutes rest and we can continue our journey."

Nonfindel slapped his forehead.

"Continue? It this state? What are you – insane? The years you have spent with this lunatic here have obviously affected your mind. We will spend the night here, so you can recover. And do not even think about gainsaying. You are injured, he is an idiot, so leadership naturally falls to me. This aside I always dreamt of bossing Glorfindel around."

Nonfindel prepared the bedrolls, then he helped Erestor to lie down. Once the advisor was comfortable, he applied a new bandage to the wound on his shoulder, then he began to collect firewood.

Glorfindel, though untied, did not attempt to run away. Instead, he crouched down in the shadow of a large oak and followed the conversation. He was confused, his head hurt, and he was angry. Angry with himself. Angry for not keeping his promise. Angry for not being able to kill Erestor.

Nonfindel returned with his arms full of wood and began to make a fire, all the while chattering without a break. Erestor did not listen to his words, but he was grateful for the distraction. He could feel Glorfindel's eyes on him, and his heart got heavy with sorrow.

"Forgive me, but this is most fascinating. How does it work?"

"Work?" Erestor asked, not quite following the way Nonfindel's mind jumped from one subject to another.

"The Elfling. You. Being pregnant. How is this possible?"

Erestor's frowned.

"This is not the time to educate you on Plains Elves anatomy."

"No need to get your feathers ruffled, Erestor. I suppose you have female parts as well?"

"I would be most grateful if you would stop discussing my parts in public," Erestor growled, blushing crimson, but Nonfindel only grinned.

"Oh, come on – what public? There is no public here. Just you, me and Glorfindel, and he has seen your parts before, I suppose."

A snort could be heard from the direction of the tree Glorfindel sat under.

"I so knew he would not be able to leave my statement uncommented," Nonfindel said, turning around to roll his eyes at his brother. "But I must say I am most surprised. He was never very forgiving of those who were not like him, or who did not live up to his standards. I remember well how he and Ecthelion spent many hours sitting on the steps of the fountain on the market square, criticising those who passed by, and in rather unkind words."

Erestor looked over to Glorfindel, then he shook his head.

"This does not sound at all like my husband."

"But it sounds a lot like my brother. So he accepted you the way you are? Without any reservation?"

Erestor lay back on the bedroll and gazed up into the starlit sky. His thoughts wandered back to the last night of the Annual Conference of the Elven Realms - the night he and Fin had become lovers...

* * *

Flashback Erestor

Fin's method of getting Erestor out of his robes was not very elegant, but was most effective. He didn't lose any time unbuttoning the advisor's shirt, he simply ripped the buttons off. Too long had he been patient, centuries, no, ages, and now that he had Erestor finally in his bed, he would not waste a moment on buttons and buckles and belts.

Glorfindel's pace was a little too fast for Erestor, who was still trying to believe that this was really happening, that it was not a dream and that he was about to make love with Fin. It was strange - he should be an eager and willing participant here, but he felt more like a bystander, watching the goings-on in his bedchamber with an odd detachment.

Did he love Fin? Yes. Oh yes. Was he scared? You bet. A Balrog could not have scared Erestor more than the tall, heavy figure of Glorfindel of Gondolin, whose body was resting heavily on Erestor's. Fin was strong - Erestor could feel the muscles under his hands, and if it came to a fight, he would stand no chance against the warrior.

Now wait a moment, Erestor chided himself, who is talking about a fight here? This was supposed to be the union of two souls, and this was a bed, not a battlefield! It was going too fast - Erestor had to tell Fin something the Elf needed to know before... well before...

"Glorfindel, please - stop it..." Erestor gasped. He tried to wriggle free of the warrior's embrace.

"Erestor... by all the Valar... do not tell me that you have changed your mind!" Glorfindel moaned, but he gave the black-haired Elf free, though reluctantly. Erestor retreated to the head of the bed, wrapped the bed cover around his lean figure and stared at Glorfindel with big eyes. Fin was taken aback - he had expected to see passion in Erestor's eyes, had hoped for love - but what he saw now was fear, panic even. He sat back on his heels, and looked at Erestor.

"Is there anything amiss, my love? Are you afraid? We do not have to do this now if you do not want to. I would be terribly frustrated and not sleep a wink out of unfulfilled desire, and yes, I would suffer horribly, but really - we do not have to."

It was a lame attempt at humour, and Glorfindel knew it. He was scared. Not only of being kicked out of Erestor's bed, but out of his heart as well. Had he misread the signs? Was the pace too fast? Had he done something wrong? He only knew that he wanted to see love in Erestor's eyes, not fear, but it was fear he saw, and he had put it there. Not a good start for a love affair.

"It is not that I do not want to, Fin, it is just… there is something I have to tell you…"

Here we go, Fin thought, now he is going to tell me that he sees me more as a friend than a lover, or that he is hopelessly in love with Elrond. And by Elbereth, now Erestor was even wringing his hands! Many things had happened in bedchambers all through the centuries while Fin had been present, some of them rather unusual, but hand-wringing had not been part of it!

"Erestor. Whatever it is, you can tell me," he tried to reassure the distraught advisor. "Former so-far-unmentioned wives, gambling debts, illegitimate children – you can tell me. I have been where you are."

Erestor huffed. "Wives? Gambling? CHILDREN? Fin – is there anything I need to know? No, do not answer this, it was a rhetorical question. See, it is very difficult to explain. There is something wrong with me."

Fin stared at his beloved, who was fiddling with the bedcover, and now he was really worried.

"Wrong? Are you ill? Shall I go and fetch Elrond?"

"NO! No, please do not, I beg you, Fin!"

"By everything you hold dear, Erestor – tell me. Whatever it is, I can take it. But I am not in the right mood to play riddles with you."

Erestor took a deep breath, fervently wishing he had a glass of wine now. Or a bottle. No, make that two.

"Fin – some… parts of me are – different. I do not look like other Elves."

There, he had said it. Not that Glorfindel had any idea what Erestor was talking about, but at least, he had said it. Whatever "it" might be. The warrior could tell from the anxious expression on Erestor's face that this admission had taken a lot of courage. He needed to be very careful and sensitive now - not two things he was an expert in!

"I know that you do not, Erestor. You are fairer than any other. But I do not think that this is what you are trying to tell me, is it? What part is different, Erestor? Please, trust me."

Another deep breath, then Erestor looked down at the bedcover, ignoring Glorfindel's outstretched hand.

"Those parts are different," he murmured, turning dark red. From the blushing Glorfindel could guess what "parts" Erestor was talking about. Well now – even more sensitivity was required then.

"'Those parts' being … those parts?" he asked, looking pointedly at Erestor's groin. The advisor blushed even more, and nodded silently.

"Ah."

Now this was definitely not the most intelligent thing one could have said in such a situation, but at least Fin had neither laughed nor fled the chamber, so Erestor found it a little easier to calm his erratic breathing. If only the blush would go away! What a ridiculous situation!

"Erestor – could you be a little more specific regarding the term 'different'? Are we talking 'different' in terms of 'smaller or larger than average' here, or more in the category of 'different different', which would be four testicles or anything of the like?"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Erestor had to smile, which was exactly what Fin had intended. The advisor relaxed visibly, and maybe they could get to the point now.

"We are talking about 'very different', Fin," he finally said, and risked looking directly at the warrior.

"'Very different' – so six testicles then. Worse things could happen. Erestor, as you obviously find it very difficult to talk about this, maybe it would be easier if I just had a look?"

"You mean – you want to see me fully naked?"

Erestor's eyes were wide like saucers, and Fin rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Erestor, that is what I mean. You and I are here in this bed, we love each other – at least I hope this is the case – and if I am to have my wicked way with you and your six testicles, it is mandatory that you take all of your clothes off. I am willing to take mine off as well, so we will be even."

Erestor nodded, but made no attempt to shed his clothes, so Glorfindel decided to take matters literally into his own hands and reached out to peel the frightened Elf out of his remaining garments. At first, Erestor shied back, but Glorfindel smiled reassuringly, and so he let the warrior proceed. Despite the passion Fin had displayed previously, he was now gentle, very careful not to scare Erestor. He distracted his lover with tiny kisses on every inch of exposed skin, and when his hands reached Erestor's leggings, it was rather obvious that his efforts were not without effect. Good – whatever the difference was, the functionality of Erestor's little advisor was not affected.

After a short while, Erestor lay naked and exposed to Glorfindel's view, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He just did not want to see the look of disgust on Glorfindel's face.

Glorfindel smiled. How often had he dreamt of this moment, when he would finally have Erestor all to himself, and preferably naked. Of course, in his fantasies, the advisor did not look as if he were about to be sacrificed to some sinister deity; his eyes were open and sparkling with love, not squeezed shut.

"May I just say, my dear Erestor, that you are a delight to watch. And if you would open your eyes now, I could appreciate your beauty even more."

Erestor opened one eye experimentally. When he saw that Fin was smiling, he opened the second as well, chewing his lip.

"That is much better. I will take a closer look now, if you do not mind," Fin said, and began to kiss his way down Erestor's body to his groin. Erestor did mind, very much actually, but on the other hand Glorfindel's lips on his skin felt too good to resist. And there was no way around this, anyway, so he might as well enjoy these few pleasurable moments.

Glorfindel was now comfortably snuggled against Erestor's hips, his head propped up on his elbow.

"Now what do we have here – a belly button. My dear advisor, if the only difference is that your belly button shows outwards, I think you are overreacting."

No answer came from above, so Fin pressed a kiss on the belly button in question and continued his exploration.

"Next: the advisorly penis – my compliments, dear Erestor. Well-shaped, fully functional, and now look at this! It fits perfectly in my hand!"

With that, he gave a few experimental strokes, and registered Erestor's gasps and moans with great satisfaction.

"I am most afraid that I have to kiss you good-bye now, my dear new friend, but be assured that I will dedicate my full attention to you soon." Fin licked off the few drops of liquid that had gathered on the tip of Erestor's erection. "Ewww," he said, and pulled a face. "Bitter and a little fishy - so nothing out of the ordinary there either. But I will get used to it."

Another lick, another moan from above. Fin nibbled, then he gently sucked, tickling the tiny opening with the tip of his tongue and pulling back just before Erestor was about to come, pressing a final kiss on the tip. "Do not leave without me - I will return later", Fin grinned, then rolled over, ending up on his front between Erestor's legs.

"Indeed – very different. Your left testicle is smaller than your right one, did you know that? But I assure you that this asymmetry is very charming. As a matter of fact I can confirm that this is the nicest pair of asymmetric testicles I have seen in my life, and I have seen quite a few of them."

Fin kissed the right one softly, then the left twice, probably to make up for the difference in size.

"Well now, Erestor, after examining the area in question, I can only say that you are lovely and desirable all over. So what, pray tell, is this enormous difference?"

Erestor shivered.

"Fin – there is something which should not be there…"

"I hope you are not referring to me now, Erestor," Glorfindel quipped, secretly relieved that Erestor was healthy, "for I would be…"

He broke off, for his gently stroking fingers had found the difference. Now this was – interesting. Erestor gasped when Fin hesitatingly touched the opening behind his testicles. He expected to hear a sound of disgust any moment now.

But it didn't come. Fin didn't scream, he didn't shout, he didn't call him a freak of nature – all of which had happened before with other lovers. Fin just touched.

"Erestor – this is most interesting. I hope I do not disappoint you by not throwing my arms up in horror. I admit, I have never seen such a thing, but then I have never had a creature as lovely as you in my bed either. Seems this is the night for firsts, then. May I ask, my beloved dark jewel, if this extra equipment is the result of an accident, or if you were born with it?"

Erestor didn't answer right away. Fin's reaction, so very different from what he had expected, took his breath away, and he was lost for words. Glorfindel kissed his way up to Erestor's neck, gently nipped at his throat, then took the advisor in his arms, cradling him to his chest. He pressed butterfly kisses on Erestor's temple and stroked his shoulders. After a while, he felt Erestor relax, and Erestor rubbed his face on Glorfindel's chest.

"It has always been like this. It never bothered me until I reached majority, and then – not all my lovers were as understanding as you are, Fin. Some were scared, others disgusted, but some, I have to say, also accepted me the way I was."

"I am glad to hear that you shared your bed not only with idiots," Fin grumbled, hugging Erestor even closer. "Does it hurt?"

Erestor shook his head.

"No, not at all. It is just – there, you know."

"I see."

Fin ran his hand down Erestor's hip, over his buttocks, and then touched the opening again.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, and again, Erestor shook his head.

"So what does it feel like?"

Erestor didn't answer right away. So far he had never allowed anybody to touch this part of his body, but with Glorfindel, it felt right. Right and – good. In an odd way.

"It is not unpleasant," he answered, "but I would prefer if you did not – do this."

Immediately, Glorfindel removed his hand, and kissed Erestor.

"Your wish is my command, my lovely one. In time we will find out what it is good for. And now please excuse me, your anatomy is too lovely to resist, and I feel a need to worship your body which cannot wait any longer. And in the meantime, try to locate the scented oil."

There was more than one thing Erestor wanted to say. He wanted to tell Glorfindel how grateful he was, that he had made him the happiest Elf on Arda, tell him that he was fair beyond measure and that Erestor would happily die for him if need be.

Alas, all he could do was whisper "I love you", but it did not matter – Glorfindel had heard him well.

* * *

Watching Námo eating held a strange fascination for Elrohir. The Vala - for so he still was to the Elf - nibbled on a fruit, then took a bite of cheese, went back to the fruit again and then tried the meat. Some of the combinations he ate made Elrohir's stomach turn, but Námo did not seem to mind. His face wore an expression of intense concentration; at times it looked as if he were studying the things he ate.

"You look almost as if you never ate before," Elrohir tried to joke.

"I have not. I never ate. It is not what we do."

"You - you never ate? Nothing? Not a single fruit? Never? But ... you ate an apple in my bedroom once, I saw you!"

Námo shrugged, inspecting a strawberry.

"You saw what I wanted you to see. I was not real. I do not know if I am real now."

He sniffed the fruit, then he licked it.

"Oh, this is nice."

Elrohir, for lack of any better comment, nodded.

"Yes, strawberries. My favourite fruit."

Námo nibbled on the fruit. It was almost overripe, very sweet, and its juice ran down his hand. Elrohir forced himself not to stare at the pink tip of Námo's tongue, which was difficult, as this incredible creature was now slowly licking up the juice from his hand.

"This tastes wonderful. I never thought eating would be such an amazing experience. You always seem to treat it more like an annoying necessity. But this is - joyful."

"Joyful... yes..." Elrohir croaked, and he was sure that the temperature in the room must have risen in the last minute. How else could it be explained that he felt so hot right now?

Námo reached out and offered the half-eaten fruit to Elrohir. After a moment of hesitation, the young Elf bit a small piece off. Red juice dripped down his chin, and before he could fetch a piece of cloth to wipe it off, Námo moved forward and licked the drop off.

Elrohir groaned. This was going too far - he was only an Elf, and this was a Vala, no matter what he looked like at the moment, and moreover, it was the Vala of Death. It was wrong, very wrong, to feel what he was feeling right now. Wrong on so many levels. Why was Námo doing this to him? Did he enjoy seeing him suffer and squirm? Or was this a test?

"You liked this," Námo stated, his face full of curious interest.

Elrohir moved away from the Vala.

"This is nothing you should do to a stranger," he said, trying to steady his voice, but failing.

Námo shook his head.

"But you are not a stranger, child. Have I not known you all your life? Ever since you and your brother were nothing but a vision in one of your mother's dreams? I was by your side when you two were alone in the woods, when there was no one between you and my Halls save this friendly Orcish creature which found a new home here. You are no stranger, Elrohir. Nobody knows you as well as I do, not your parents, not your brother, not your sister. And none of your lovers."

The thought of having Death as a constant companion was not one to cheer Elrohir's mood. Nor the image of Námo standing by his bed while he believed himself alone with a lover.

"Elrohir - do you really think the Vala of Death had no more urgent matters to attend to than watching a young Elf roll around in the hay with one of his father's advisors?"

"You know about that?" Elrohir squeaked, and he paled.

Námo grinned.

"I guessed. But as I said: I know you well. What is it that you have been looking for, child? In beds and haystacks and green meadows?"

Elrohir moved even further away. This was uncanny, and he wished he could just jump up and run away.

"Tell me, Elrohir: what is it that keeps you awake at night? What makes you watch your brother with envious eyes?"

The young Elf pressed his hands over his ears so as not to hear the cursed voice any longer.

"Leave me alone! This is none of your concern!"

"Oh, but it is. You are unhappy, young one. Lonely among those who have found their soul's counterpart. You are standing by the window and looking in on life, but you do not really participate. Because you do not love. It is the greatest gift of all, Elrohir, to love and be loved in return. It has been offered to you so often, but you never accepted."

"I am not listening."

"Your heart is full of love and kindness. Please, share this gift with me."

Elrohir felt Námo's hand on his neck, then he was pulled forcefully into a kiss which made his head spin.

Elrohir had kissed so often in his life, but never had he experienced anything comparable. This was not just a kiss - this was so much more. He had often laughed about books which told of lovers seeing stars while kissing, but now he really saw them, bright and sparkling. Elrohir felt how Námo peeled his old self off him like a worn-out robe - loneliness, jealousy and bitterness, all gone. His whole being was exposed to Námo, naked and pure, and the Vala took it, as gently as one would touch a bird. Elrohir pressed close to Námo, and he wished he could crawl under the other's skin, could be one with him, one mind.

"Do not be afraid to fall, my little one," Námo whispered, "I am here to catch you. Let go."

"Look, ada, uncle Elrohir is doing the kiss-thing with the other Elf!"

There was Elladan, looking all regal in robes and circlet, standing in the doorframe, Eldanar by his side, waving Tathar the toy dragon and giggling. Celeron the Healer looked over Elladan's shoulder, disgust plain to see on his face.

"Elrohir – please do tell me that I do not see what I see now," Elladan groaned.

Námo, not intimidated at all, licked Elrohir's ear and purred. Then he turned his attention to Elladan and frowned. All three Elves shied back from his gaze, feeling as if the other was looking at the bottom of their souls.

"Child – why do you want your brother to lie?"

* * *

"Here - eat this. It tastes awful, but it will give you strength."

Nonfindel passed a bowl of dubious smelling broth to Erestor. The advisor sniffed it, pulled a face, but began to eat nevertheless. It didn't taste that bad, after all, and he was hungry.

"You are not talking about your parts, I accept this. But maybe you can answer me another question, Erestor: Glorfindel is obviously under a spell - you were risking your life and the life of your child. How could you know that Glorfindel would not kill you?"

Erestor swallowed some of the broth. He thought about it for a moment, then he looked at Glorfindel, and his eyes never left the warrior while he answered.

"How I could know? The answer is simple, my friend: I could not."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Melpomaen followed the boy through streets and alleys, and it was only thanks to his Elven skills that he managed not to knock anybody down or bump into a cart. He wondered briefly how this must appear to an onlooker: the boy following the tall smith, and the woman following the boy. But there were no onlookers. The people of Breon's first care was for themselves, and as far as Melpomaen was concerned, this was a blessing.

Many streets and turnings later, the boy suddenly stopped and hid behind a cart laden with potatoes. Melpomaen halted his steps as well, and pressed his body close to a pillar in front of a bakery. They were now close to the castle, and the boy watched Orophin pass through the side entrance.

Melpomaen shook his head. This made no sense. Why was a child following Orophin? Had he been ordered to do so? If yes – by whom? Cold fear came over Melpomaen. Had they been found out? But if so, why were they still free? Certainly they would have been arrested immediately.

There was only one way to find out, and so Melpomaen waited, never taking his eyes off the boy. Minute after minute passed, but nothing happened. The owner of the shop had been watching Melpomaen for quite a while already, with growing suspicion. The Elf prayed to the Valar that the man would not address him, for Melpomaen didn't speak a single word of the common tongue and understood less than ten, and he doubted that the "poor mute little woman" trick would work again. It had been a stupid idea in the first place, Feronil was right. Not that he would ever tell him so, of course. The advisor would be unbearable if...

Melpomaen perked up when he saw Orophin leave the castle. He carried a large bag, his tools, Melpomaen guessed, and he was accompanied by a man, clad in a blue velvet cloak, so Melpomaen surmised that the other was a noble. The boy got very excited, and made to follow the pair, Melpomaen on his tracks. This time, there was not so far to go, as the two were obviously heading for the prison, which was next to the castle. From Feronil's tales, Melpomaen knew about the dungeons and the underground corridors between the castle and the prison, and this knowledge did not exactly reassure him. Why was Orophin going there?

He saw the boy crouching behind a bush, and decided that this was the moment to act, before the young one took flight. Without a sound, he sneaked up on the child and grabbed him by the arm.

The boy gasped, and stared at the "woman" with terrified eyes. He struggled and put up a wild fight, kicking and biting, but Melpomaen did not let go of him. Finally, the boy reached up and tore at Melpomaen's headscarf, which slipped from his head and landed in the grass. Melpomaen immediately let go of the child and tried to cover his head and, more importantly, his ears, but it was already too late. The boy stared at him open-mouthed, and it was obvious that Melpomaen's disguise had just been busted.

'He will run back to his parents now and tell them that a baby-eating, harvest-poisoning Elf is in town, dressed up as a woman, and there is nothing I can do about it,' Melpomaen thought, 'for I could never harm a child. So knocking him out is out of question.'

To the Elf's great surprise the boy didn't run. The child reached out, and Melpomaen saw how pitifully thin his hand was. He didn't move when the small fingers touched his ear, though he winced when the child pinched the tip. Then a flood of words broke over Melpomaen, the child talked a lot and very fast, with many gestures towards the prison, and there could be no doubt that he was trying to tell Melpomaen something of great importance. But Melpomaen didn't understand a word. He knelt down before the boy and shook his head.

"I do not understand you, penneth. Not understand. Do you understand? No? Well, we have the same problem then."

Melpomaen could see that the boy was frustrated and close to tears. For a moment both were silent in their helplessness. Then the boy’s face took on a determined expression and he pointed at Melpomaen's ear, at the prison and then at Melpomaen again, repeating two words over and over.

Melpomaen paled, for the two words were among the ten he knew of the common tongue: "Elf" and "dead". He had been entirely wrong about the boy's motivation: he did not want to harm Orophin - he wished to help him!

"Orophin is in danger, is that what you are telling me?"

The boy didn't understand, simply repeating his warning over and over again. Melpomaen's mind was working feverishly on a plan to rescue Orophin. It would have been a great help if he had known what kind of danger it was, and who the enemies were. For the umpteenth time on this adventure, Melpomaen could have kicked himself for his laziness. If only he had taken the time to study the common tongue, instead of burying his nose in history books! All his knowledge about battles and great warriors was of no use now. By the Valar, he could not even wield a sword!

A thought crossed Melpomaen's mind: maybe this was not about Orophin? Maybe - maybe this was where Glorfindel and Celeborn were held prisoner? The young Elf’s heart skipped a beat. Was it possible that this boy had led him to his beloved lord?

There was only one thing he could do: he had to take the boy back to the tavern. Feronil would be able to understand him, and then they could make a plan. He only hoped the prisoners would remain alive long enough to profit from this plan.

'I know that you are here, and I will not leave this city without you, my lord,' Melpomaen thought, 'I promised I would go to Mordor and back for you, so a mere prison will not deter me.'

That the prison in question was guarded by heavily armed soldiers while he couldn't even lift a sword did not discourage Melpomaen. He was a very determined Elf.

"Hold on, Celeborn," he whispered, then he picked the boy up and hastened back to the tavern.

* * *

'Where has my guardian gone?'

This was the question Celeborn asked himself over and over again. There were so many things he wished to ask the other elf, now that communication was possible. Who was the other? And where were they? Why had he been taken prisoner? What had happened to him? But the other had gone, and so far had not returned. Currently, Celeborn sat in the garden, and the female he referred to as "Lemon" fed him dinner. It was humiliating. Fruits he could eat himself, it was not too difficult to bite into an apple, even if one was blind, but eating steamed vegetables from a plate was as yet impossible for Celeborn. He had tried, but only made a terrible mess. So he was now spoon-fed like an Elfling, and he could hardly think of anything less becoming an Elven lord.

While he chewed on the spinach leaves - spinach, for crying out loud, the only vegetable he loathed with a vengeance! - his thoughts wandered back to the very peculiar question the other Elf had asked: "How many Elves are still alive?"

What sort of Elf would ask such a question? Not a normal one, that was a given. Maybe he was very young, or maybe - yes, maybe he had lived in captivity for a very long time, all his life, even. Was this what he could expect now as well? To stay here for all eternity, deprived of light and song?

Celeborn's hand fisted in the fabric of his robe. This was not an end he was willing to accept. Slain by a Balrog - acceptable. Murdered by a jealous husband - annoying, but 'no risk, no fun'. Fading from boredom after being spoon-fed spinach for the next two ages? No way.

"Hold on, Celeborn".

The Elven lord started. He had clearly heard a voice, but how could that be? He was still deaf! Celeborn jumped to his feet in his excitement and took a few tentative steps. 'Calm down and concentrate,' he ordered himself, 'maybe Galadriel just tried to far speak you.'

But no, it had not been a female voice. He still felt the echo of the voice in his mind, and he ignored the female pulling on his sleeve. When she didn't give up, he even pushed her away. This was too important, he could not allow anybody to distract him from his task.

Celeborn concentrated and tried to find the source. He was prepared for a long, exhausting search, but it took him only a few seconds to locate the one who had spoken to him, and entering this Elf's mind was like stepping into bright sunshine from a dark, cold room. There was warmth and love all around him, things he had missed so very much these last days, and Celeborn had no objection when he realized whose determination and love had been strong enough to find him.

No objection at all.

* * *

"The Orc is watching me," Amaris whispered, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.

"Of course she is," Gil whispered back, "I expect she has to estimate how strong the spit needs to be to hold your weight."

"Spit?" Amaris stopped dead in his tracks, staring at his lover in terror. "You mean she wants to eat me?"

Gil nodded, looking completely unconcerned.

"Very likely, and who could blame her? I can confirm that you are most tasty, dear Amaris. Your flesh is tender and delicious, please remind me to bring some mint sauce along for the next meal."

"You are making fun of me," Amaris growled, and Gil grinned.

"My dear Amaris, Mauburz is the only vegetarian Orc in Middle-earth. So you can concentrate on your front rather than your back - I will look after it, in any way necessary. You must understand: from what I heard, the Orc worships the ground Elrond walks on, so naturally, you and I are probably as popular with her as a platter of raw liver." He sighed. "I wish life was not so terribly complicated all the time."

"And I wish we would finally meet the enemy. I know we are watched, but we have not been attacked so far. What are they waiting for?"

Gil shrugged. "I suppose they want to make us nervous. And I admit that this tactic is not without success. Just keep your eyes open and stay alert."

Mauburz, who was indeed riding behind them, grumbled Orcish curses in her helmet. Stupid Elves! Did they really think she could not hear their words? Her dislike of Amaris had increased proportionally to the lines of sorrow in Elrond's face. She could not understand how anybody who had been graced by the Valar with the precious gift of Elrond's love could cast the Half-elf aside for someone like Amaris. Or anybody, for that matter.

Mauburz, despite all the goodness of her heart, was a simple soul in many ways, which was not necessarily a bad thing. She always took the shortest way from A to B, ignoring any obstacles in her way: what did not move of its own accord was moved. The Orc could not understand why two people who were in love would separate. From her point of view, you met, you fell in love, stayed together and had a couple of Elflings – how difficult could that be? Well, maybe not the Elfling part, when it came to Elrond and Gil-galad.

So, while Mauburz glared daggers at the backs of Gil-galad and Amaris, only occasionally interrupting her silent protest to turn around and see if Elrond was still riding behind her, she began to consider possible mates for her beloved lord. Her favourite candidates would have been Orophin, Erestor or Glorfindel, but they were already married. Lindir? He had a nice singing voice and would certainly cheer Elrond up, but that might not be enough for a long-lasting relationship. Feronil? Mauburz shuddered. The day the advisor should try to court Elrond, Mauburz would stick him on the top of the flagpole in the market square. Melpomaen – well, he was worth a closer examination. Mauburz liked him, he was always cheerful, friendly and generous. He talked too much, but then the Lady Celebrían had not exactly been the silent kind, either, from all the Orc had heard. Ah, the sweet lady. Mauburz sniffled, it always made her sad that she had never met the wife of Lord Elrond.

No. There was no suitable candidate among the Elves here. Maybe a nice female from Lothlórien? Again, Mauburz shook her head. No, they were too boring. She couldn't imagine Elrond being happy with somebody who spent her days crocheting doilies or picking flowers.

Mauburz halted her horse and sniffed.

"Is anything wrong, Mistress Mauburz?" Elrond asked, and Gil-galad stopped his horse as well. He turned around and looked at the Orc questioningly.

"It stinks, nice lord Elrond, very much. Orcs, many. And men. Men and Orcs not have washed for weeks. Easy to find them. Stoopid."

"Into the trees, all of you. Lead the horses into the undergrowth and prepare for battle," Thranduil commanded, and his Elves immediately followed his order.

"Thranduil, I thought we agreed that I am the one leading this army."

The king of Mirkwood arched an eyebrow at Gil-galad, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Then stop making moo-eyes at my brother and do your duty," he snarled, and before Gil could give a suitable reply, the king had climbed a tree quick as a squirrel. Gil glared after him, and Legolas grinned. When he caught Gil's murderous glance, he hurried to follow his ada.

"Moo," somebody said, and Gil opened his mouth to reprimand the Elf who had done so. However, when he realized that it had been Amaris, he closed his mouth again.

"Into the trees, warriors and bovines!" he barked.

* * *

It was drizzling outside, and Galadriel frowned. Lothlórien obviously didn't even deem her worthy of a proper rain shower. The night air was cold, so she pulled the silken cover up to her nose, only to push it away within the next minute. She turned to the left, then turned to the right, and after a while of even more tossing and turning she gave in, stood up and slipped into her light morning robe. A glass of warm milk, that was what she needed, maybe then she would fall asleep. Should this remedy fail, there was always Celeborn's stock of Dwarven Brandy.

The guards in front of her door snapped to attention, but Galadriel didn't even look up. The patter of her bare feet on the long flight of stairs down to the kitchen echoed through the night, and the drizzle covered her hair and clothing with a fine layer of moisture. She hoped that everybody had already gone to bed so that she could rummage in the kitchen without having to put on a brave face before curious eyes, but her hopes were disappointed.

"Is it not a little bit late for a walk, child?"

Galadriel muttered something unfriendly about being addressed a 'child', and shuffled past Tindalinde, who sat at one of the long tables sipping a mug of hot herbal tea.

"My, are we in a sunny mood today. Did your excellence have a bad dream? Or have you just decided that your old nanny is not worthy of a proper greeting anymore?"

Galadriel sighed, then she turned around.

"My apologies. Mae govannen, Tindalinde. I did not mean to be impolite."

The older Elf nodded and accepted the apology. She had been the best friend of the lady Eärwen, Galadriel's mother, and had looked after the little maid since the day of her birth. Wherever Galadriel went, Tindalinde went, too. She had extended her love for her charge to the daughter, Celebrían, and had stayed in Lothlórien all through the ages, a loyal, reliable friend. When curious folk asked her why she had never left for the Undying Lands, she used to say that it was much more fun to annoy Lord Celeborn on a daily basis, but everybody knew that it was her love for Galadriel and her family that kept her here.

Her parents had given her the name "Tindalinde" in the hope that she would become a famous singer like her mother, but unfortunately she had shown early on in life that she had a voice as pleasant as one of Cirdan's foghorns. This proved extremely useful later, during her many vocal disagreements with Lord Celeborn, whom she told repeatedly that he had the common sense of a monkey and about the same social skills. This was, of course, her way of expressing her affection for Celeborn. She had been devastated when she heard of his abduction.

Of all the Elves in Lothlórien, she was the last one Galadriel wanted to see at that moment, because her maternal friend tended to radiate disapproval whenever Rúmil was near, and right now, she did not need a lecture on the proper behaviour of a lady.

Tindalinde looked up. Her hair was combed back and tied firmly in a single braid; so firmly in fact that the skin of her face was stretched tight, giving her a very alert and wide-awake expression, even at this late hour.

"Is it worry over your drunkard of a husband that keeps you from sleeping? There is no need, I have not managed to get rid of him in many millennia, I doubt that even a Vala will be able to silence him."

Galadriel stared at her open mouthed. "How can you know ...?" she began, but Tindalinde only rolled her eyes and cut her off.

"My dear Galadriel - nothing happens in this talan without me knowing it."

Galadriel sighed, then she sat down beside her friend, pushing a strand of hair out of her face.

"Celeborn is not my husband any more, Tindalinde. But I hope you are right and that he will be returned to his home safely."

The other Elf snorted.

"Not your husband anymore? A fine mess our society has come to! The young ones lie with each other without being married, husbands cheat on their wives, and silly wives who should know better let even sillier young Elves warm their beds. When I was a young maiden, we chose one and stood by him."

Galadriel blushed, hearing well the underlying rebuke, and she felt anger rise.

"I cannot remember a time when I did not stand by Celeborn," she said firmly. "I can, however, remember many times where he stayed somewhere else. Our marriage might be over now, but this does not mean I do not love him anymore, or that I am not deeply worried about his well-being. However - it is not in your place to criticize the way I lead my life."

Tindalinde snorted.

"And what kind of life is it that you lead, my child? If your young lover climbs up the vine to access your chamber through the window in the dead of night, this certainly makes him look like a true romantic. But this is not seemly for the lady of the Golden Wood, and it is high time you put an end to this nonsense."

Galadriel sighed. Of course her old nanny was right. People were talking behind her back, and Rúmil, too, though he never mentioned it, was exposed to gossip and snide remarks. This affair was unbecoming for the lady of the Golden Wood.

She got up and straightened her morning robe.

"You might be surprised to hear this, dear friend, but I agree with you. It is high time to put an end to this nonsense. And I shall do so."

Tindalinde smiled, and patted Galadriel's arm.

"There, that is my Galadriel as I know and love her. I knew you would come to your senses. But be gentle when you drop him, child."

Galadriel arched an eyebrow.

"Drop him? Rúmil?"

"Of course."

Galadriel laughed. She laughed as she bid Tindalinde a good night, she laughed as she walked up the stairs.

'I am glad she is not taking this too hard,' the older Elf thought.

And then she heard Galadriel giggle.

* * *

"Here, take my cloak and pull the hood down over your face," Orophin instructed Elcallon. The Elf with the light brown hair obeyed, but he never took his eyes off Orophin.

"You are an Elf," he stated, "you really are an Elf!"

Orophin, who was kneeling on the floor and packing up his bag, glanced up briefly.

"Of course I am an Elf. What is so surprising about that?"

Elcallon shook his head.

"I thought all Elves were dead?"

"Dead?" Orophin paused in his work for a moment. "What gave you that silly idea?"

Elcallon fiddled with the clasp on the cloak.

"I have been told so, all my life. The Elves were very selfish and did not help the people of Breon when the Dark Lord attacked, and finally, they killed each other in war. I thought that my two friends and I were the only ones left. Oh, and then there is Celeborn, of course."

"Celeborn?"

Orophin jumped up and grabbed Elcallon's shoulders.

"You know lord Celeborn? Where is he? Is he in good health? And how about Glorfindel? Is he injured?"

Elcallon, overwhelmed by the questions, took a step back.

"I do not know of one called Glorfindel. But I know Celeborn. I looked after him. He is in the castle, with my friends."

Incredible, but true: Melpomaen had been right. Orophin considered the options. Somebody had to inform Estel of this, for Gondor was the closest neighbour of Breon. There was no way that they could save Celeborn and Elcallon's friends themselves. An army was needed, quickly.

"Do you know the tavern by the market square?" Orophin asked, and his heart sank when Elcallon shook his head.

"I was never allowed into town."

"Now listen: I will explain to you how to find this tavern. You will leave here wearing my cloak and carrying my bag. We are of about the same height and build, I doubt that the guards will notice the difference, especially if you keep the hood up. Once you arrive at the tavern, you will ask for Elit the merchant or his wife, Blossom. Can you remember these names?"

"Elit and Blossom. Yes, I will remember," Elcallon answered, nodding his head.

"Good. They are friends of mine, Elves like you and me. Tell them what you told me, and give them my message to inform Estel. He is the King of Gondor. They will know what to do."

Again, Elcallon nodded.

"But what will happen to you?" he then asked. So far, Orophin had not mentioned how he intended to leave the prison.

Orophin shrugged.

"Do not worry. I will find a way."

He gave Elcallon directions to the tavern, and the other Elf listened carefully.

"Now leave, before anybody notices that something is wrong here."

Elcallon picked up the bag. It felt heavy in his hand, but this was nothing compared to the weight on his heart. He knew that the life he had known for so many centuries was over. His greatest wish was granted, to see the world. This was wonderful, but also very frightening. Would he cope? Would he be welcomed?

"Should you meet a noble Elf called Elladan, then please tell him ... tell him that he is always in my thoughts and my heart. Will you do this for me?"

Elcallon nodded one last time at Orophin, then, acting on impulse, he hugged him. It felt right, and for some odd reason, as if he had done this before.

Which was nonsense, of course.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

"Have you finally lost the last scrap of common sense you had, Melpomaen?"

Feronil could not have regarded the filthy boy in Melpomaen's arms with greater disgust if the child had been a rabid dog. Melpomaen ignored the advisor's question and set the boy down on the bed.

"Feronil. He followed Orophin to the prison, and he seems to know something. Alas, I do not speak the common tongue. Talk to him. Maybe he knows where Celeborn is."

"Maybe he is a spy, and the king's guard is already waiting for us outside the tavern!" Feronil barked.

"Maybe he is a dwarf who shaved his beard off," Melpomaen mocked. "Stop being so melodramatic, Feronil. Talk to the child."

The older advisor, taken a little aback by Melpomaen's unusual authority, grumbled something unintelligible, then sat down opposite the child, who stared at the large, angry looking Elf with fearful eyes.

"Who are you, where do you come from, what are you doing here and where is Lord Celeborn?" he asked, but the child only stared at him open-mouthed, too frightened to answer.

Feronil rolled his eyes. "See? He does not know anything. Or maybe he is a dimwit. That would be so like you, dragging in the village idiot."

"It would take one to know one," Melpomaen muttered. He had not understood what Feronil had asked the boy, but guessed from the tone the advisor had used that it had been unfriendly, so he knelt down beside the child and stroked his filthy hair.

"Do not be afraid, penneth,” he said in his most gentle voice, "Feronil only pretends to be nasty, in reality, he is a very nice Elf."

The boy looked from Melpomaen to Feronil in confusion. Only a short time ago, he had been carrying water from the fountain to the smithy; now he was sitting here between two magical beings. One of them was obviously angry, and the other wore a dress, though he was a male.

He liked Melpomaen much better than the grim looking Elf opposite him, but still he turned to Feronil, who had spoken his language.

"What … what did he say?" he stammered, and pointed at Melpomaen.

"He said that he is grateful you are so sympathetic about his gender confusion," Feronil said, and poked his tongue out at the younger advisor. But his voice was friendlier now, and maybe, so the boy thought, the Elf was not angry with him after all.

"So, let us try anew: what is your name?"

"Got none."

Feronil snorted and shook his head.

"What nonsense. Everybody has a name, even this one here. His name is Melpomaen, but he prefers to be called 'Blossom'. I am Feronil."

The boy shrugged.

"I don't have a name, don't need one. I'm just the water boy."

"The – water boy?" Feronil repeated, clearly not understanding.

"Yes. I carry water to the smithy. That's all I do, so I don't need a name, they said."

"Are you not a little young for such heavy work?" The boy was thin, and didn't look well – how could anybody possibly let such a sparrow do any work at all?

"Oh no, I'm old! Most water boys don't make it past 10, and I've got 11 summers already."

Feronil shivered when the meaning of the boy's words sunk in. He had truly never thought to come to a place where children were proud to be 11 because they expected to be dead by 10.

"What did he say?"

Melpomaen was worried; he saw the shocked expression on Feronil's face and feared the worst. But the advisor ignored him.

"Very well then, boy. Master Melpomaen here tells me that you might have news on the whereabouts of a friend of ours. Do you know an Elf named Celeborn?"

The boy shook his head. His hair was caked with dirt from the smithy, and Feronil's sharp eyes spotted tiny animals in the mats. He wrinkled his nose.

"No. Never saw an Elf before... before..."

The boy got stuck and kept staring at Melpomaen.

"Are you a fairy?" he finally burst out, then he quickly ducked, fearing that his bold question might lead to punishment.

Feronil giggled.

"Feronil! Will you kindly tell me what he said?" Melpomaen snapped, and Feronil nodded.

"Ai, how lovely you are when you are upset. No, he does not know anything about Celeborn, but he asked me if you were a fairy." Feronil smacked his lips. "Ah... how lovely you would look with wings and a frilly dress, Master Melpomaen... and maybe with a little wand and a chain of flowers in your hair..."

"Feronil! We have no time for such nonsense! Ask him why he followed Orophin then! And do it now, before I lose my patience!"

Feronil decided that he had been annoying long enough to secure his reputation, and returned his attention to the child.

"You have been following a friend of ours. Can you tell us why, and where he is now?"

The boy fiddled with a scrap of his torn shirt, then he answered quickly and almost without taking a breath.

"Alandel was always nice. He never hit me, and when somebody else was mean to me, he told them to leave me alone. And he shared his meals with me. The others didn't like him. I overheard the master saying that he would send Alandel to do something in the prison, and that they would kill him. I followed him to warn him, but I..."

He broke off, and now tears were filling his eyes.

"And you were afraid to approach him," Feronil finished the sentence. To his great surprise, he found that his large hand with the elegantly polished fingernails was resting over the child's dirty one. And it surprised him even more that he did not pull his hand away once he noticed. Not even after another look at the boy's head showed him that his hair must be the home of the largest population of lice on either side of the Bruinen.

Feronil turned to Melpomaen.

"Somebody set a trap. Orophin was sent to the prison to be killed."

* * *  
Erestor grabbed Nonfindel's arm so hard that his fingers left bruises.

"Orcs, many of them, they are blocking our way!"

Nonfindel shuddered and stared in the direction Erestor's finger pointed, but he could neither hear nor see anything.

"How can you know this, my friend? I have good ears, but I hear nothing but the snoring of the owls."

Erestor sighed and buried his head in his hands. He was in pain and so very, very tired. If only he could sleep, get some rest - but this was not possible. Not now.

"I can smell them," was all he said.

"They must have missed out on a bath for many weeks then," Nonfindel quipped in an attempt to cheer the advisor up, but he was far from light-hearted himself. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere, behind him one probably very unamused Vala, in front of him equally cheerful Orcs, and the warriors with him were either injured or mad.

Splendid. What was he supposed to do now - defend their lives with a paint brush?

He considered the situation for a moment, then he picked up Erestor's sword and walked over to Glorfindel, who still sat under the tree, brooding, watching them.

Nonfindel crouched down in front of his brother, who stared at him darkly.

"Are you coming to collect my head?" he snarled.

"I cannot collect something you never had. Here, a sword. According to your husband, we will soon run into Orcs, unwashed ones even, and as he is injured and I am worthless with a weapon, it is up to you to keep this merry band of wanderers alive."

Glorfindel hesitated only briefly, then he took a firm hold of the sword and lifted it to the sky. The moonlight reflected faintly from the blade.

"Pray tell - why should I do this?" he asked, and pointed the sword with a swift move towards Nonfindel. The sharp point came to rest on the other Elf's chest, but Nonfindel didn't even bat a lash.

"Because I am your brother and I tell you so."

Glorfindel increased the pressure, and Nonfindel felt the blade cut into his skin.

"I do not know you. I do not remember ever having seen you. Not you, not him."

Nonfindel sighed, looking down at the sword threatening him. A small dark spot spread on his shirt where the metal had cut him.

"Glorfindel. First you injured your husband and put your unborn child in danger. Now you threaten me, your own brother. So tell me: who in their right mind would, freely and without duress, admit to being related to you? Not me, that is for sure!"

Glorfindel jumped up, still clutching the sword tightly.

"Husband, brother! You talk of things that I do not know anything about! I remember being home, talking to my wife, and then..."

"Your wife?" Nonfindel gasped, "You do not have a wife, Fin! The Elf over there is your husband, you have not had a wife for millennia, and trust me, if you cannot remember the ones you had before, you are not missing anything!"

"Do not insult Firinwë, my wife," Glorfindel growled, "or I will..."

Glorfindel never got to finish his sentence, because by now, Nonfindel was howling with laughter.

"Firinwë? Your wife?" he cackled, "Indeed, the Valar must hate you, Fin, if they punished you with her presence. Good griefs, brother - under what spell are you? Did they give you anything to drink that tasted bitter? Or something to smoke that smelled sweet?"

"Nonfindel - please. There is no time for this. We have to continue our journey."

Erestor stood behind them. He had approached without the two noticing him, and he was already wearing his cloak.

"Are you certain that you will be able to continue?" Nonfindel asked, worry in his voice.

"I am. Can you get the horses?"

Nonfindel looked from Erestor to his brother, then he sighed and nodded.

"Of course. I will wait for you."

With that, he trotted off, leaving Glorfindel and Erestor some privacy.

Glorfindel still held the sword, while Erestor's hands were empty. For the second time, Glorfindel had the chance to revenge his son, and again, he forfeited it. Why could he not hate the other Elf anymore?

Erestor did not speak a word. He just looked at Glorfindel thoughtfully. There was no anger in the dark brown eyes, no hate, no guilt, and no shame. Only sadness.

"I have no means to hold you here against your will, Fin. You are free to leave."

Glorfindel opened his mouth to reply, but the words would not come.

The advisor bowed his head respectfully, then he turned on his heels and made his way towards the clearing where Nonfindel was waiting with the horses.

Glorfindel was relieved. He could now take his horse and ride back to his wife and his lover. They were certainly already sick with worry, and would be overwhelmed with joy to see him return. He could go home, where he belonged.

So why was it, Glorfindel wondered, that he sheathed his sword and followed Erestor instead?

* * *  
"See? See? Do you finally believe me now?"

Elrohir stood between his brother and Námo, gesticulating wildly, his face flushed.

"Elrohir, please, calm down," Elladan begged, "it is not good for you to get all worked up and upset."

"I have every right to be upset!" Elrohir cried, "You locked me up here in a padded room, doubted my word and assumed that I had lost my mind when, all the while, Námo was right here in our midst!"

Elladan stared at the tall, black haired Elf who had been following the discussion with interest and obvious amusement. He was thin, his hair matted, his features sharp. He was a hunter, Elladan decided, a hunter watching his prey and choosing his moment for the kill. The only things about the Elf that were not sharp or edgy were his eyes.

Elladan was deeply grateful that the stranger had saved the children, and he would have loved to be able to believe his brother. But while the discovery of another Plains Elf was exciting and surprising, Elladan still saw a Plains Elf, not a Vala.

Celeron, the healer, cleared his throat, and whispered in Elladan's ear, his disgust only faintly concealed.

"My lord, maybe it would be better if lord Elrohir were left alone to calm down. The presence of our... guest here seems to upset him greatly. And we do not know him. Who knows what his intentions are - maybe he has noted that your brother is a little confused at the moment and fed his delusions?"

"Would you kindly stop talking as if I was not here?" Elrohir protested. "My hearing is excellent, thank you very much! Nobody is delusional here! For the last time, this is Námo, the Vala of Death, and I demand that you release me immediately. Elladan, please!"

Elladan, who had never been able to turn down any of his brother's requests, was torn between his wish to release Elrohir and the fear that this might be the wrong thing to do. So he addressed the unknown Elf.

"I apologize for this situation, it must be most confusing for you. But I must ask you, and I beg you to answer truthfully: are you the Vala of Death?"

Námo sighed, then he shook his head.

"No, unfortunately, I am not."

Elladan's shoulders drooped. He had known, of course, that this would be the answer, but somewhere deep in his heart he had nurtured the hope that maybe, just maybe, his brother was right and not insane. But of course this had been a fool's hope. Elrohir, as sad as it was, had lost his mind. He was obsessed with the idea that one of the Vala walked among them, and now he was projecting his obsession on this unfortunate Elf.

Elrohir grabbed Námo by the collar and shook him violently.

"You! Why are you doing this to me! What have I done to you? Tell them, by Elbereth, tell them the truth!"

Elladan and Celeron both hastened to the two Elves, and each of them grabbed Elrohir by an arm, dragging him away from his victim.

"I thought you cared for me! And all you do is get me into trouble! I hate you! I hate you!" Elrohir screamed, now completely losing his composure. His hair hung wildly about his face, and he fought with all his might against his brother and the healer, who tried to keep him from getting at Námo's throat again.

"Oh, I know you!" a cheerful voice suddenly piped up, and all heads turned towards the open door. Eldanar stood there, already dressed for the night in his ducky pyjamas, loyal Tathar, the toy dragon, clutched tightly under his arm. The child's presence seemed to freeze the scene; nobody dared to move, not even Elrohir, for as upset as he was, he would never have started a fight in front of a child.

Námo smiled, then he crouched down, and beckoned Eldanar closer. The Elfling gave him a big smile and waddled across the room, dragging one of Tathar's wings over the floor. Námo opened his arms, and Eldanar immediately climbed onto his lap, hooking one arm around the black-haired Elf's neck.

"And I know you, little one. How do you fare, child?"

"Oh, wonderful! You were right, everything turned out well! Will you stay here with us? And tell me stories about my ada?"

Celeron and Elladan had released Elrohir, and all three Elves stared with big eyes at the tall Elf and the child who talked as if they had known each other for ages. The black-haired Elf held Eldanar firmly, and when he got up, he settled the child comfortably on his arm.

"I will stay here for a while, child. And I will tell you the tales of bravery you want to hear."

Eldanar beamed at the Elf, and placed a very wet kiss on his cheek.

"Goodie! I like you!" Then Eldanar sniffed. "You smells so nice! Like the stuff the cook puts in the taters!"

Involuntarily, all three Elves sniffed as well, and now they noticed it: nutmeg. The scent of the strange Elf was nutmeg.

"Eldanar," Elladan gasped, "where do you know our guest from?"

"Oh, once I thought nobody likes me, and so I runned away, and he was in the Great Hall and said I should stay. He knows my ada!"

Eldanar's ada. Elladan stared at the Elf in front of him, and now he saw the wisdom of eternity in the other's eyes, his majesty and authority. He suddenly remembered the scent of nutmeg on the day that the Vala of Death had come to claim Orophin back.

Elladan felt Elrohir's hand on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. Elladan started, and turned around briskly, staring at his brother with wide eyes.

"Elrohir;" he gasped, "if Námo is here - who are ada and Gil-galad fighting then?"

* * *  
Elcallon was gone. Orophin hoped the Elf would find the tavern and his friends, for this was the only way Celeborn could be saved.

And what about him? Orophin rubbed his eyes, slid down the wall and dropped in the dirty straw which covered the ground. He rested his chin on his arm, and studied the corpse in front of him. The blood was beginning to dry, and Orophin waited for some kind of remorse or regret, but all he felt looking at the dead man was indifference. Or maybe even a slight satisfaction.

This was not the way an Elf should feel, he mused, but he could not help it: he was glad the man was dead, and the decision to kill him had been an easy one. How ironic this was: his life as an Elf had begun so many millennia ago in a dungeon in Breon, and now it would end here as well. This time no gentle lord would come to save him, there was no second chance. Orophin was wise enough to know that he could not escape from here on his own, and that it would take too long for his friends to come to his rescue.

If only he could have seen Elladan one last time. There was still so much he wanted to tell his husband, and there was Eldanar, too, who would now lose another father. This was not right. No child should have to suffer such pain, and Orophin was more worried about the little one than about himself.

And then there was Elrohir, of course. What had driven his brother-in-law to kiss him? How come he had never noticed the younger Elf's affection? He only hoped Elladan would be spared the knowledge of this incident. He did not want Elladan's last memory of him to be the mental image of Elrohir and him kissing.

Orophin's thoughts were interrupted when he heard heavy steps and shouts in the corridor outside the cell. He quickly got up, took his knife and positioned himself behind the door. Orophin knew he had no chance, but if he had to go to the Halls of Waiting, he would make sure that he was not travelling alone!

* * *

Firinwë looked at the ring. It was nothing special - a small Mithril band with a simple black stone. And this little thing held such power? This little thing caused a war?

Not for the first time she wondered what those powers might be. In the book, she had not found any indication but the hint that the ring was very forceful. She could put it on, of course, and find out, but Firinwë had learned over the ages to listen to her inner voice, and this inner voice was screaming "hands off" at the top of its lungs. So Firinwë did not touch, only looked.

So far, her plans had not worked out. She had daydreamed about riding into Lothlórien on a white horse in glorious victory, and she had never doubted that Finwë would have the power to get her what she wanted in return for her services.

But now it looked as if Finwë would get all he wanted - an entertaining war which would weaken his enemies and consequentially ensure his victory - while she, who had done all the work, got nothing. No Glorfindel, no Celeborn. She had only the ring.

Firinwë turned it in her fingers. It felt good - the smooth texture was pleasant to touch, and the metal was not cold, as one might have expected, but warm. Smooth and warm. Lovely to touch. She ran her fingers lovingly over the jewel.

Maybe the ring would feel even better if she slipped it onto her finger? Only for a brief moment? What harm could this do?

Lovely to touch. So very lovely.

* * *

The captain of the guard had expected his king to scream, shout and bawl for blood, he had not expected him to stay calm and controlled. But this was exactly what had happened. The news that the Elf - his Elf - had escaped was received seemingly without reaction. For many minutes, the king just stared at the prisoner, who, without a doubt, was an Elf, but not Elcallon. But yet, there was something oddly familiar about this face. So the king did not waste a moment looking at his guards who all awaited anxiously his verdict, fearing for their own skins. No, he studied the Elf.

It had not come as a great surprise that Elcallon had tried to escape. The king's suspicion had been aroused on the very night his Elf had asked to see the world. And after the foolish attempt to flee his kingdom, it had to be expected that Elcallon would try again. It was a surprise, though, that he had been successful in escaping the dungeons. Without a doubt, that was thanks to this one here, which made the king all the more interested to learn who had freed his Elf and killed his advisor.

After what seemed an eternity to the guards, the king sighed.

"My guards shall search the town. Leave no stone unturned, I want him back. He is mine. But be careful not to arouse suspicion, I do not want the peasants to know that one of their precious jewels is in their midst. And make sure you do not harm him. He shall be severely punished, but by nobody's hand but mine, for I am his master. Now go, waste no time. He can't be far away; he is like a child, inexperienced in our ways."

The captain hesitated a moment, looking to and fro between his king and the prisoner, but after an impatient wave of the king's hand, he made haste to leave the hall. He was more than grateful to have escaped so easily, a feeling that was shared by the guards, who ran to the stables to saddle the horses and begin their search of the town.

Orophin's expression remained impassive, and if the king had expected the Elf to grow uncomfortable under his scrutiny, he was wrong. The king got up, stepped down from his throne and circled the Elf.

"So you are Alandel, the smith, I was told. Now who would have thought that I had an Elf in my service that I did not know about?"

Orophin didn't answer, just continued to stare at the wall.

"Now I do know that you speak our language, so you can stop pretending you do not understand me. Why did you come here, Alandel? Were you sent as a spy? Has this anything to do with my new Elf?"

For a moment, the king saw a spark of interest in the Elf's eye, and this was enough to confirm what he had suspected.

"Ah, so it's about the lovely present I recently received. What a pity he's in such a bad shape, I would have loved to hear where he comes from and who he is."

A clenching of jaws, a gnashing of teeth. The Elf was about to get angry. Good. The king was not used to being ignored. He stopped his circling and ran his fingers first over one leaf-shaped ear, then through Orophin's shorn hair. The Elf flinched away, but the king's hand quickly fisted into the short strands, and tugged painfully.

"You are in no position to resist, Alandel, or whatever you real name might be. You murdered my most valued advisor. You helped my Elf escape. You injured four of my guards when they found you in the dungeon. By the laws of this country, your life is forfeit."

He let go of Orophin's hair, noticing with satisfaction the hateful looks the Elf gave him.

"Then kill me. Others will come," Orophin hissed.

"And I will know how to welcome them," the king replied. He called for his personal guard, without taking his eyes off the Elf. The heavily armed warriors arrived and waited for further instructions.

"Bathe him, then take him to my personal chambers," he ordered. "And make sure he stays there. Losing one Elf was enough for one day."

Orophin was seized and dragged out of the hall, and the king was amused by the surprised expression on the Elf's face.

"Because of you, I lost my Elf. It is only fair that you take his place."

He then addressed his guards.

"Take him away. And do not injure him, for now he is my property."

The captain nodded, then the guards left with the still struggling Elf. When the heavy doors closed behind them, the king returned to his throne and sank down in it, suddenly very tired.

The Elf was very fair, no doubt. They all were beautiful, enchanting creatures. But he was not Elcallon, and he would never be able to take the place of his Elf.

However, so the king mused, and he sat up straight again, it was nothing but fair if he got some compensation for all the trouble. He would veil the windows and put out the candles, then he could pretend that the Elf in his bed was Elcallon.

He smirked. Maybe he should keep one candle burning - the Elf was very fair, after all.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

The king was pleased to find everything as he had ordered. The heavy curtains were drawn to shut out the light of the moon, and the only thing to penetrate the darkness in his bedchamber was the flame of a large candle next to the bed. Its soft, flickering light barely outlined the figure spread out on the bed. When the man's eyes got used to the darkness, he could see the Elf. As instructed, the king's servants had bound his hands to the headboard, his naked form only covered by a thin silken sheet.

The king's heart jumped - for a brief moment, he thought to see Elcallon, but of course, this was just an illusion. Well, his Elf would be back with him in no time; he'd punish him, of course, but eventually, he would forgive him. By now Elcallon certainly had realized that he was lost in the outside world, and that his place was here, with his king.

For now, however, somebody else was here, and the king was not one to neglect his duties as a host. Without hurry, he took off belt and his jerkin, and walked over to the bed.

"I hope you were treated with all due respect," he addressed Orophin, filling a goblet of wine from the carafe which stood on the side table. "Were you served food and drink? If not, I can order something."

Orophin smiled, which was a little confusing.

"I have been well cared for, my king. Thank you."

The king took a gulp of the wine, then put the cup down and sat on the bed, beside the Elf, one foot still on the ground.

"So polite all of a sudden? I admit I'm surprised."

Orophin shrugged, as far as it was possible with his hands bound above his head.

"I am no fool. I know when it makes sense to fight, and when it is better to... cooperate."

The last word was accompanied with batting of lashes, and the king felt a familiar warmth and a pleasant, tickling sensation spread through his body. He reached out to touch the leaf-shaped ear, then he ran his hand down the Elf's cheek, over his neck and down his chest, coming to rest on Orophin's stomach. The Elf didn't flinch, but simply watched him.

"You are a warrior," the king stated. "You look very different from my Elf."

"So you have you own Elf then," Orophin replied, "I thought slavery was banned in this kingdom centuries ago?"

"I would not call it slavery," the king answered, not moving his hand from the Elf's body. "I see it as protection. My three flawless jewels have never seen the outside world, and they wouldn't survive there. It's an ugly world, and I don't like to see pure things marred. You, however, are a diamond in the rough. Tell me - how come you speak our language as if it was your own? And why is the blond Elf of such interest to you?"

Orophin smirked.

"Do you always talk so much in your bedchamber? I suggest we get the things you had in mind when you entered over and done with, and save the interrogation for later. My arms are getting tired, and I can tell that you are eager to sample your loot. So what are you waiting for?"

The king removed his hand, and stared down at the Elf in surprise.

"You are indeed not at all like one of my jewels. Why do you offer yourself so freely?"

Orophin rolled his eyes.

"As you stated yourself, I am a warrior. I do not know what your warriors are like, but as far as I am concerned, I prefer to stay alive under all circumstances. If it takes some cooperation on my part to achieve this, so be it. I have done worse in my life."

The Elf bent one leg, and the silk sheet slipped down his body, pooling in his lap and revealing more skin to the king's view. He liked what he saw.

"If you offer, I will gladly accept. I would not have forced myself on you, as I prefer willing bed partners."

The man moved closer, and kissed the Elf. Nice, very nice. Though Elcallon's kisses had been different. Something was amiss, but now was not the time for pondering the differing quality of Elven kisses.

"Ah – I like the way you taste," the king stated, "I like the way you look, and I have no doubt that I will like the way you feel to my touch as well."

Another kiss, more heated this time. The sensual movements of the strong body under him and the taste of the Elf overwhelmed the king's mind. What was it about Elves – holding one was like standing in a meadow in spring, when colours and scents of the flowers indulged ones senses. He ran his hands up and down Orophin's chest, then paused, gazing down at the Elf, who smiled again.

"Forgive me if I keep you restrained for now. Once I'm sure I can trust you, there will be no need for ties - unless you like them, of course. I only want to ensure that you are not overwhelmed by a sudden urge to strangle me."

Orophin laughed, and the king could feel the tremor of his laughter through the thin layer of silk.

"My king - what nonsense. Never would I strangle you."

Orophin batted his lashes and bucked sensuously, causing the king to gasp. Quickly, he straddled the Elf, and closed his eyes. Such heat, such burning, delicious heat!

Within the fraction of a moment, the man was held in an iron grip, and the cold steel of a blade was at his throat. He tried to concentrate. How had the Elf manage to get free? Where had the blade come from? He swallowed hard and felt the metal cut into his skin.

Orophin growled, a dangerous, archaic sound, and the king realized that he had greatly underestimated his prisoner.

"As I said, Man - I would never strangle you," Orophin hissed, increasing the pressure of the blade, "but I would be more than happy to cut your throat!"

* * *

"Orcs," Mauburz hissed, digging her claws into Legolas' arm. The young Elf stared out into the darkness, but he could not see anything. However, if Mauburz said that there were Orcs, there were Orcs. Legolas made a sound like a cricket's chirp. Amaris, who sat hidden in the next tree, understood the signal, and elbowed a dozing Gil in the side.

"They are coming. Be prepared."

Gil stifled a yawn, then he stretched, as far as this was possible in his uncomfortable position.

"About time," he whispered, "I had already begun to feel very silly sitting in a tree like a squirrel."

Amaris arched an eyebrow.

"Call our strategies silly one more time, and there will be one sad squirrel here weeping over his lost nuts," he hissed, and Gil winced.

"I did not say anything," he quickly protested, "but I am an Elf of action rather than of lurking. I…"

The sharp call of an angry squirrel could be heard, and Gil snickered.

"Mention 'nuts', and all squirrels wake up…"

Amaris shook his head.

"This was not a squirrel. It was my brother, making it known that you should kindly keep quiet so not to alert the enemy."

Gil moved a little closer.

"In other words, he told me to shut up, is that correct?"

Amaris preferred not to answer. He continued to stare out into the darkness, and he started when the Elf beside him suddenly made a very odd noise.

"What in the name of the Forest Spirits was that supposed to be?" he hissed, and Gil shrugged.

"I do not know. But I hope it was something rude."

Amaris groaned.

"Indeed. It was the call of a female porcupine on heat, searching for a mate. You have probably traumatized the Orcs for years to come."

Gil grinned.

"Did I? Splendid! I have always been an advocate of psychological warfare. If you cannot beat them, at least make sure they get a persecution complex."

* * *

Elladan tried to make sense of the situation, but he failed.

"Quiet!" he thundered, and immediately, Eldanar, Celeron and Elrohir stopped their agitated discussion mid-sentence. Námo had not said anything, had just stood there, watching seemingly unperturbed the chaos his presence had caused.

"My lord Námo," Elladan began, pinching the bridge of his nose to hold off the mother of all headaches, "I would like to repeat my question. If you are not the enemy my father and our friends have gone to fight, who is he then?"

Námo, who had not taken his eyes off Elrohir, folded his hands. He was a picture of tranquillity, and Elladan felt a sudden urge to strangle him.

"All shall be revealed in time," the Vala answered, then he stretched his long body. "I have been inside too long. I will go for a walk."

He made to leave, but Elladan blocked his way.

"With all due respect, my lord, you will not leave. Vala or not, I will not leave my father and my friends in danger if it can be helped."

Námo looked at the young Elf thoughtfully.

"You are brave, and your heart is pure," he finally said, "but you have no part in the battle." He paused for a moment, looking at Elrohir, then added: "At least, not in this one."

With that, he was gone before any of the puzzled Elves even noticed that he had moved.

Elladan stared after him, then turned to his brother.

"Elrohir! What madness is this? What in the name of the Val-, I mean, what were you thinking? You cannot go kissing a Vala! Have you gone insane?"

Elrohir felt anger rise in his heart, hot anger, and yet cold as ice. He closed his hands into fists and took a step towards his brother.

"Why do you think that this is my fault?" he hissed.

Elladan's narrowed his eyes.

"Because you have batted your lashes at every fair creature to pass your way ever since we came of age. Does it not suffice that you have half of Imladris and Lothlórien grovelling at your feet? Do you now need a Vala to prove that you are fair beyond measure of Man or Elf?"

Elladan's words hurt Elrohir deeply, and all he wanted was to make his brother feel pain, too. He grabbed Elladan by the collar and pulled him close, coming face to face with his twin. He ignored the fearful cries of Eldanar, and did not heed Celeron's attempts to separate them, either.

"Oh yes, I have them all grovel at my feet, Elladan. All of them! Including your husband!" he hissed.

Elladan shook his head in disbelief.

"I do not know what has come over you, Elrohir. How can you believe that I would ever doubt Orophin? We will talk about this later; right now, we have more important matters to discuss."

"Oh I see – you would never doubt Orophin, but you doubt me, yes? Great! Who needs enemies with friends like that!" Elrohir cried, and stomped his foot.

Elladan crossed his arms over his chest, looking for an instant very much like their father, eyebrows and all. A scary sight.

"As you have obviously decided to behave like a petulant child, I deem it best that you leave now and go to your room. I will see if I can find a way to warn ada, and once you have come to your senses again, you may wish to help me."

Elrohir stared at Elladan, his mouth open.

"You – send me to my room? Like an Elfling?" he croaked.

Elladan shook his head sadly.

"Go, Elrohir. I beg you."

Elrohir wanted to say how sorry he was, and that nothing that had happened had been Orophin’s fault, but no words would come, and so he quietly left.

Celeron said nothing, and it was Eldanar who finally approached Elladan, taking the Elf's big, strong hand between his two small ones.

"Do not cry, ada," he whispered.

Elladan knelt down, hugging the child very close, and Tathar, the loyal toy dragon, was once again soaked in tears. This time, however, they were not the Elfling’s tears.

* * *

"Stop giggling, Haldir. The situation is serious."

Haldir tried to stifle his laughter, but not even Lord Elrond's frown could wipe the grin from his face.

"I am sorry, my lord, but hearing the high king calling for a porcupine mate was just…"

"Haldir. This is not funny."

Mauburz snorted.

"Yes, is very funny. All forest full with Orcs, and you make porcupine horny. Very silly. Stoopid Elves."

Again, the call of the angry squirrel could be heard.

"Oh, squirrel now very angry. Better stop now, or squirrel gets heart attack."

The squirrel in question was indeed trying very hard not to lose his temper. Thranduil cursed for the umpteenth time his decision to participate in this hair-raising operation. He knew that warriors often tried to relieve the tension before a fight with rude jokes, but this porcupine-incident took things a little too far.

The king of Mirkwood sighed. He tried to listen to the trees, to let his thoughts drift on the breeze, to see the enemy and know what to expect. But he could not concentrate. The atmosphere of this forest was dark, and his heart was heavy. He knew that something serious, something of great impact, would happen. For many days now, he had felt melancholic, and though he had not shared his fears with anybody, those close to him knew that Thranduil pondered his possible death.

There had been signs in the sky, a cloud hiding a certain part of the moon. An owl had cried outside his window, and a dead crow had been found outside the entrance of the Great Cave. All these were harbingers of doom according to the legends of the Woodland Elves, and even if Thranduil had not believed in these signs, his heart told him that his life's path had reached a crossroads. He was convinced that he would have to take the road to the Halls of Waiting, and who knew what to expect there now, with the Vala of Death their enemy?

Thranduil was not too fond of his life – it had been hard and troublesome – but he would have liked to stay a little longer here on Arda, to give Legolas the support he needed. Thranduil hoped that Amaris would stand by his son, counsel him as he had counselled this cursed high king. Legolas would need all the help he could get; the crown of Mirkwood was not a blessing but a curse in times like these.

Lost in his thoughts, Thranduil let his attention slip for a moment, and when all of a sudden a squirrel shot out of a hole in the tree trunk, he started, lost his balance and fell.

"What a way to die," his last thoughts were, "frightened out of your tree by a squirrel…"

He heard Legolas yell in fear for him, and turned in the air like a cat. Branches broke his fall; it hurt, and he felt his ribs crack, but at least the speed of his descent slowed. His hands clawed the air, but despite all his efforts, found no hold. Again, he hit a branch and cried out in pain, then he closed his eyes, expecting to hit the ground.

Instead, the impact felt rather soft, considering the circumstances, and when Thranduil opened his eyes, he found himself on the ground, on top of a very shocked looking Elf.

"By the Valar – is this a new weapon I have not heard of yet? The patented Elf catapult? Would stones not perhaps be more effective?"

Thranduil, still dizzy, held his head in the hope it would stop spinning, but to no avail.

"I fell…" he murmured, then he sank back, feeling nauseous. Luckily, the Elf he had landed on reacted quickly, grabbing him before he could hit the ground. Thranduil's head came to rest on the Elf's shoulder. He had never seen this one before. His hair was golden, like his own, and gentle eyes looked down at him in concern.

"Yes, I noticed. So I suppose you are the welcome present all tired travellers who enter sunny Tíngel receive? Ah well, it would be rude to refuse a gift – I think I shall keep you."

"I do not think that the Elves of Mirkwood would be delighted if you carried their king away as a souvenir, Nonfindel," Erestor's tired voice could be heard from the shadow of the large tree.

By now, they were surrounded by Elves, and Legolas knelt down by his father's side, his fair face distorted with fear. He took Thranduil's hand.

"Ada, ada, please, speak to me! Are you injured?"

Elrond began to examine the king. Then he patted Legolas' back.

"He has broken a few ribs and his left foot, but from what I can tell, he has no further injuries. However, he probably has a concussion, so we must take him somewhere safe."

Then he looked up.

"Erestor! My dear, dear friend – we were so worried about you! But pray tell," he added when he saw the state his advisor was in, "what has happened? You are injured! Were you attacked?"

Erestor shook his head, and Elrond saw how very tired and sad his old friend looked. Now he also noticed the other figure, still hidden in the shadows.

"Glorfindel?" he asked, taking a few tentative steps towards the warrior, but when he saw the look of suspicion in the warrior's eyes and the lifted blade, he stopped.

"Erestor, what has happened? Who is this? And why is Fin…"

The black-haired Elf only shook his head.

"Glorfindel lost his memory. There is no time for explanations now, Elrond, for the enemy is close. We must prepare for battle."

While Erestor and Elrond talked, Legolas began to brace his father's foot. They would have to find a safe place for Thranduil; he would not be able to face the enemy. Nonfindel looked down at the injured Elf in his arms.

"So, you are a king then," Nonfindel murmured, brushing the loose strands of hair back from Thranduil's face.

Then he smiled.

"Ah, it does not matter. I think I will keep you, anyhow."

* * *

Elrohir entered his chamber, closed the door and then slumped down on the floor. Never in his life had he felt so miserable, confused and alone.

It was a revelation for the young Elf to finally understand that it had not been love that had drawn him to Orophin. Yes, the Elf was fair and a great warrior, but the attraction for Elrohir had been what Orophin represented for Elladan. Elrohir was lonely, and he longed for somebody to share his thoughts and feelings with. To think that the only one he had been close to these last months had been the Vala of Death... it defied all imagination.

Elrohir rubbed his eyes. He felt like falling asleep right here, on the floor, but the thought of being found lying behind the door like a dog made him struggle to his feet. He took off his clothes and dropped them on the spot, not bothering to fold them and hang them over a chair. With his last strength, he crawled between the sheets, and fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

"This family really have a talent for making their lives complicated," Lórien said to Námo, and both watched the sleeping half-elf for a while. He could not see anything special about him. What was it that had attracted Námo so much that he had accepted exile? He had often asked, but never received an answer. As with so many things, Námo tended to be very tight-lipped about his motivations.

"I think that you owe me an explanation, considering that I have to perform your duties. Bringing dreams is decidedly more pleasant than bringing eternal sleep."

Námo shrugged, giving Lórien a sidewise glance. "I will not gainsay this," he finally said. "It is an interesting experience, though, to actually dream."

"You have walked in my realm many times, Námo - is there really a difference now, that you are trapped in this body?" Lórien asked.

The black haired Vala nodded.

"There is. I wish I could explain to you how it feels - how I feel."

Lórien shook his head.

"I never understood your obsession with the Firstborn, Námo. To me, your current state looks terribly limited."

"It is. But while I cannot fly with the wind anymore, I can feel it in my hair. I can touch. I can smell."

He reached out and gently, almost gingerly stroked Elrohir's hair.

"I can feel."

Lórien sighed.

"That is what I was afraid to hear."

* * *

"I would think that you have gazed at this pretty jewel long enough now, my lady, and you should put it back its case, lest you go blind."

Finwë's voice, sounding bored as usual, had a thin layer of ice in it, and Firinwë, still holding the ring in the light, noticed it. However, this was no reason for her to do as she was told.

"Certainly you would not want to rob me of the only light and beauty in this place, my lord," she answered, still holding the ring, "as both Celeborn and Glorfindel are gone, I must find other ways to entertain myself."

The dark lord clasped his hands behind his back and stepped closer. He always seemed to flow rather than walk, and his movements, though lazy in appearance, were quick and often unexpected. So, while she was annoyed that he suddenly stood behind her, she was not too surprised.

"You should not forget, dear child, than I am longing for entertainment, too," Finwë purred, his breath like a chilling breeze on her neck, "and it would entertain me to no end to cut your hand off if you should not return the ring to its case right now."

Firinwë clenched her jaws, then she turned her head, glaring arrogantly at the dark lord.

"I doubt you would do that, my lord – for if you cut off my hand, how could I wear the ring once its power is needed?"

Finwë smiled. It was a terrible smile, showing two rows of white, sharp teeth.

"All you need to wear the ring is one finger, my lady. So I promise to stop after I cut off the ninth."

He was bluffing. Of course he was. But still, Firinwë put the ring back in its case.

"You are very wise, my child. Now come, I have things to discuss with you. We will go to war."

He abruptly turned around, heading for the door, and after a moment of hesitation, Firinwë followed him.

The ring in the case was annoyed, but it would wait, as it had done for so many years already.

Its time would come.

* * *

"I have been waiting for you, young one."

It was not the dream Elrohir wanted to have right now, but quite obviously, Lórien had decided to punish the young Elf for his behaviour. Elrohir dreamt that Námo was sitting on his bed, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap.

"What are you doing here?" Elrohir gasped, and Námo bowed his head.

"It is time to close the circle, young one."

"I do not feel like playing riddles with you," Elrohir replied tiredly, "nor do I wish to play the fool for your entertainment. You are a Vala, and one of the mightiest at that, and for you, I am nothing but a toy."

"Come here, Elrohir."

Námo had often sat there like this, legs crossed, sometimes annoying him, sometimes enlightening him. Elrohir noticed how the mattress was pressed down under the Vala's weight. How odd to notice such a minor detail, and how quickly dreams adapted to reality, but maybe it was because Námo's weightlessness had always amazed Elrohir. He was reminded of Estel, who had been greatly fascinated as a child by the fact that Elves left no footprints in the snow, and the boy had been terribly disappointed when he realized that, as much as he craved to learn this art, he would never master it.

Elrohir slipped out from under the covers and moved to the foot of the bed. He sat down opposite Námo, but well out of his reach. Automatically, he took the same position, legs crossed. But unlike Námo, his hands did not rest peacefully in his lap. He wrung and kneaded them, interlaced and unlaced his fingers and closed them to fists again, the knuckles protruding white.

"It is time."

Elrohir stared at Námo, interrupting the restless folding and unfolding of his fingers for a moment.

"Time for what?" he asked, but Námo only smiled.

The next thing Elrohir knew was the solid, comfortable weight of Námo's body, the hands whose caresses he felt though they did not touch his skin, soft lips claiming his, sharp teeth nibbling on his ear.

"Do not torture me so," Elrohir sobbed, "can you not leave me my peace at least in my dreams?"

But Námo did not answer, his hands were buried in Elrohir's hair, and then those maddening caresses continued. There was a voice in Elrohir's mind, speaking soothing words of comfort, a warm blanket of love wrapped around his heart, and the touches and whispered kisses woke a yearning in his body he had never known before. And he could not resist it. His hand fisted in Námo's hair, pulling the other close so hard that their teeth clashed when their mouths met, but neither one cared.

Námo seemed to touch him everywhere at once, and while this incredible creature nibbled on the tip of Elrohir's ear, the young Elf thought that at the same time a hot, wet tongue tickled his navel, while soft lips teased his penis. This was, of course, one of those wonderful things possible only in dreams.

"Have you made your decision, young one?" Námo whispered in Elrohir's ear. He did not state what decision, but oddly enough, Elrohir knew the answer.

"Yes, I have. I agree, by my soul, I agree," Elrohir groaned.

"Then you are mine. All of you, young one, body and soul and heart, mine to keep, for all eternity."

The very moment these words were spoken, a heat he had never known before encompassed Elrohir. He was pressed down into the mattress, and he saw Námo move above him. It was surreal, one of the weirdest dreams he had ever had. Námo whispered words in a language Elrohir had never heard, and before Elrohir's inner eye, faces and places appeared from a time when Arda had still been young. He saw the awakening of the Firstborn, saw life and death, battle and peace: a million voices united in his mind into the song of creation, and at one point, he thought Elladan was calling for him somewhere.

But nothing was real, nothing, only the burning fire in his body. He tried to move and find relief, but his body would not obey him. His limbs were heavy, as if he had weights of lead bound to them, and so all he could do was feel the sensations. He cried and begged and pleaded for Námo to end it, but at the same time, he would have given anything for this never to end, never to have to wake up again and face a life where he was neither wanted nor needed.

"Námo, please …" he finally sobbed, and the spell was broken. He snapped up, digging his fingers into Námo's back and his teeth into his shoulder. Elrohir pulled Námo even further down on his lap, and in the moment of his release, both stilled their movements, nothing disturbing the silence but Elrohir's soft moan.

"Do you love me?" Elrohir whispered, breaking the silence and searching Námo's face with feverish eyes for an answer.

There was no reply from Námo, but he rested his forehead on Elrohir's, a gentle smile playing around his lips, and Elrohir knew the answer.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Thranduil groaned, and it was not only due to the pain he felt from his injuries. Falling out of a tree was, at least in his eyes, one of the most embarrassing things that could happen to an Elf. Being injured in battle – fine. At least one could impress the family during the long winter nights with exaggerated tales about such incidents. But – falling out of a tree? He could only hope that this tale would not find its way beyond the borders of Mirkwood, or the dwellings of Dwarves all over Middle-earth would echo with malicious laughter at the "fallen King of Mirkwood"!

How embarrassing. How degrading. How absolutely humiliating.

“You do not look well”, Nonfindel said compassionately, drawing Thranduil a little closer. They both sat hidden in the crown of an ancient oak, on a branch as wide as one of the benches in a tavern. Nonfindel had promised to make sure Thranduil would stay here and out of trouble once the battle started. The deeper they hid in the leaves, the less their chance of being spotted by Orcs, for Nonfindel doubted that stabbing the creatures in the eyes with a paintbrush would be a successful strategy in the long term.

However, Thranduil was not in the mood for pity, and angrily shook Nonfindel’s hand off.

“My welfare is none of your concern, and I do not wish to be touched, either,” he barked, immediately regretting the action when a sharp pain shot through his ribs. Elrond had applied a makeshift bandage to his ribcage and immobilised his broken ankle between two splints, but Thranduil was still in considerable pain and therefore a miserable mood, especially as he was suffering from a pounding headache, too. All of these injuries, however, could not torture his body more than the fact that he had fallen from a tree and landed in Nonfindel’s arms like a blushing maiden in one of the terrible sappy romances the lady Galadriel was reputed to read. Thranduil’s idea of literary fame was finding his name in a book about great warriors and their heroic deeds, not in a sappy bodice ripper!

Nonfindel rolled his eyes. Why must the fairest beings always be the most annoying ones as well?

“You misunderstood my concern. I merely feared that the most unbecoming green tinge to your face indicated that you would throw up soon, and I wanted to ensure that you would not empty the contents of your stomach over my illustrious person. These are my favourite robes, after all.”

Thranduil glared at the other Elf, and put on his most arrogant facial expression.

“Watch your tongue; you seem to forget who you are talking to.”

“Not at all. I know very well who you are, and I am aware of your reputation as a sourly old grump, too. But you forget that I am not one of your minions, and that I would rather hang you upside down from this tree, holding you by the ankle that is not broken, than allow you to soil my robes. So, unless you wish to follow the upcoming battle from the perspective of a bat, I suggest you stop behaving like an Elfling.”

Thranduil opened his mouth to give a sharp reply to this outrageous expression of disrespect, but he was interrupted by wild cheering and applause from below.

“Amaris,” he said, “go and kiss an Orc.”

Then he sighed. Could this day possibly get any worse?

"Orcs!" Legolas yelled, and Thranduil found his question answered.

* * *  
The thought of screaming for help had crossed the king’s mind, but the Elf moved so quickly, he would probably cut off his shout by cutting his throat. The king was no fool – this Elf was not like Elcallon, there was nothing soft and gentle about him, and he could not expect any mercy. The most sensible thing was to wait – and escape at the first chance.

Orophin opened the lid of a chest in search of some clothing. He had every intention of leaving Breon, but not naked. Fortuitously, the chest contained Elcallon’s clothes, and so he quickly slipped into a pair of leggings and a tunic.

‘How odd,’ the king thought when he watched Orophin, ‘he moves without a noise, I can’t even hear the pad of his naked feet on the floor.’

“Time to start our journey,” Orophin said, walking over to the king, who was sitting on the floor, hands tied firmly behind his back.

“Where will you take me?” the king asked when Orophin roughly hauled him to his feet.

Orophin arched an eyebrow.

“If I was of your kind, I would say: ‘bent over the table’. But you are lucky: I am not of your kind. First you will lead me to my lord Celeborn, and then you will accompany me and my friends to the border, to ensure that we will not end up with arrows in our backs. Once we are on Gondorian ground, I shall release you.”

“What are you implying?” the king asked, his voice shaking with anger. “Do you think me a villain?”

Orophin bowed in mock apology.

“Oh, please forgive my thoughtless words, your majesty. How could I possibly assume that you ordering your servants to tie me naked to the headboard of your bed could be anything else but the preparations for the normal interrogation procedure every prisoner is subjected to in Breon. And Elcallon has stayed locked up in these walls for ages by his own free will, I suppose?”

The king shook his head.

“Elcallon is not a prisoner. And I told you that I would not have taken you by force.”

“And I tell you that I do not believe a single word you say. But I will give you some good advice: instruct your minions not to serve a knife together with the fruit bowl next time, for that could ruin your enjoyment, as you can see. And now come, move, I do not have time for idle chatter. Where is the door to the secret passage way?”

The king hesitated a moment, considering denying all knowledge of a secret passage, but then he realized that the Elf knew about it, probably from Elcallon. So he pointed to the hidden door, and Orophin pushed the king towards it, the knife held close to his captive’s throat.

“You will now open the door,” he ordered, “and then you will lead the way to lord Celeborn. Any attempt of yours to flee or scream will cost you your life. Do not imagine that I am joking. I have nothing to lose.”

The king nodded, careful not to cut his skin on the sharp blade, then he pushed against a stone in the wall. With a low, grinding sound, a narrow opening appeared in the wall.

“Walk,” Orophin ordered, shoving the king forward. The man stumbled into the dark corridor, Orophin close behind him. The hidden door closed, and the Elf and the Man were trapped in darkness.

* * *

“My – how lovely you are, Blossom,” Feronil purred, and ducked when Melpomaen threw a hairbrush at him. The young Elf had slipped into his skirt and was now trying to close the lacing of his bodice, once again disguising himself as a Gondorian woman.

“On your headstone it will read ‘Blossom was his last word’, Feronil,” he hissed.

The water boy sat on the bed, watching the exchange between the two Elves with big eyes. Now and then, he scratched his head, making Feronil shudder. The Elf jumped up, opened the door and yelled for a chamber maid to come at once. The wench, whose arrival was sped up considerably by the threatening undertone in Feronil’s voice, was ordered to bring a bath tub, hot water, a razor and clean clothes for the boy. The girl eyed the filthy boy wrapped in rags who sat on the bed suspiciously, but when Feronil gave her a silver coin, she hurried out of the door and all but flew down the stairs to provide the generous guests with all they demanded.

Melpomaen crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.

“You do not intend to give the child a bath right now, do you, Feronil? We must go and rescue Celeborn and Orophin, we do not have time for this!”

Feronil rolled his eyes and waved him off.

“Do you really think that Orophin, a warrior renowned for his skill and bravery, will need the help of a dashingly handsome, yet not very weapon-skilled advisor, an Elfling in women’s clothing and a mortal child with head lice to come to his rescue? We stay here, that is my last word."

Feronil ducked and escaped the comb, then he got up to answer a knock on the door.

A caravan of servants entered. Two men carried a large wooden tub in which potatoes were usually stored. Three girls each carried two buckets of steaming hot water, and the parade was finished by a boy carrying a ratty towel and a piece of yellow curd soap. The tub was placed in a corner, the buckets were emptied into it and then Feronil shooed everybody out of the chamber, giving each servant a silver coin.

"Take off your clothes and throw them on the fire," he ordered, and the child obeyed immediately. Feronil clenched his jaws when he saw how pitifully thin the boy was, and Melpomaen covered his mouth with his hand to stop himself from crying out.

"Open the window, Feronil," Melpomaen begged. Something dark and depressing had sneaked into the room, and the young Elf tried to drive it out with their usual banter, "the steam in here is worse than in the washhouse in Imladris!"

After checking the temperature of the water, Feronil lifted the boy into the tub, then he turned around for the piece of soap. Careful to hold it only between his thumb and forefinger, he sniffed at it, then he wrinkled his nose and threw it into the fire.

"That smelt exactly like the shampoo Glorfindel uses to wash Asfaloth's mane and tail," he said.

Melpomaen sniffled. "Indeed? I would have said it smelt like the horrid oil you use to keep your braids shiny."

Feronil decided not to rise to the bait and began to rummage in his bag. After a while, he found what he was looking for. The boy, who had followed all this with big eyes, looking over the rim of the tub, was confronted with a bar of pink soap.

"This is soap. Not only will you be clean, you will also smell like a field of flowers in spring," Feronil announced. The boy did not really understand why he should smell like a meadow, but he didn't protest when he was first dipped under water and then washed with one of Melpomaen's cloths. It took quite a bit of work to get the child clean. The dirt, clinging to the boy's skin in thick layers, was rather stubborn, but not stubborn enough for Feronil. The advisor complained, cursed and lamented almost without interruption, but after some time, the child looked clean. The water, however, had turned to mud by then.

"I did not know that you had such a way with children," Melpomaen said, watching the proceedings from a safe distance.

"I do not have a way with children," Feronil growled, reaching for the razor. "I do not like children. In fact, I loathe them. I only like them cooked, baked or steamed with mint sauce."

Melpomaen, despite his worry for Celeborn and Orophin, had to laugh. He stepped forward and patted Feronil's back.

"You might be able to fool others, Master Feronil, but not me. Although you put more effort into appearing a villain than any Elf on Arda, I know you have a good heart."

"Will you be quiet now, you annoying Elfling?" Feronil barked, "If somebody heard you, my reputation would be ruined for at least four centuries! Stop talking nonsense and help me to shave the boy’s head. With any luck, the few lice which have not yet drowned will then find their death in the fire."

Melpomaen reached for a soft towel, and knelt down beside Feronil.

"I do not think that will be necessary, Master Feronil - once the lice see your face, they will drop dead with shock."

The boy had followed the discussion in this odd language with wide eyes, and was now staring fearfully at the blade in Feronil's hand. What was his intention? Did he want to hurt him? But no, he had been friendly, and why give him a bath only to hurt him afterwards?

"What are you staring at?" Feronil asked the child, in a rather brisk tone. The boy immediately ducked back under the water. Feronil, blade still in hand, realized that he had scared the child, and rolled his eyes.

"For the Valar's sake - I have no intention of cutting your ears off, boy. Only your hair. Unless you want to keep the lice, that is."

"It will grow back soon," Melpomaen added, with a friendly smile, forgetting that the child did not speak his language.

"What did he say?" the child asked.

"He said he needs a haircut, too," Feronil replied.

The child stared at Feronil, squinting his eyes.

"You have funny ears," he finally said. "Are you a pixie?"

Now this was something Melpomaen understood without knowing the language, and he almost toppled into the tub from laughing.

"One word of this, Blossom, and you shall not sleep another night in peace from fear of waking up a bald elf!" Feronil threatened. Melpomaen, trying hard to stifle his giggles, wanted to answer, but at that moment, there was a knock on the door.

He got up to open it, and found a chambermaid standing outside, fiddling with her apron. She curtsied.

"Ma'am, there is somebody waiting outside. He says he's here to see you and your husband, and you should hurry, he said."

"What is his name?" Feronil asked from inside the room.

"Don't know, Sir. One mighty tall gentleman. Don't know more, Sir, but he said you should hurry."

With that, she turned around and left.

"Some 'very tall gentleman' is asking for us," Feronil explained to Melpomaen, who had not understood a word.

"Do you think it is Orophin?" Melpomaen asked, and Feronil, who had just finished shaving the boy's head, stepped over to the small window, pushing the curtain aside. But it was already too dark to see anyone outside, so he shrugged.

"Could be. Could also be a trap. Whoever it is, we cannot avoid confronting him."

He returned to the tub and lifted the boy out of the water. Quickly, he wrapped him in the towel and began to rub the shivering child dry.

"Here, put on your clothes," he ordered, and the child obeyed. The clothes were too big, but warm and clean. Feronil helped him to tie the laces of his shirt, then he took something out of his pocket and knelt down.

"Now listen. You will wait for us at the top of the stairs when we go down to meet the man who asked for us. If it is our friend, I will whistle, then you may join us. If not, if we should be taken away, I want you to take this and leave this town."

Feronil pressed a small pouch into the boy's hand, and the child looked at him with big eyes.

"Go to Gondor. The king is a friend of ours. Tell him you are sent by Feronil - that would be me - and he will help you. Do you understand?"

The child nodded.

"Good. Well, Blossom - it is time to meet our fate. Have you painted your lips and powdered your nose? We might go to our doom, but at least we shall do so looking pretty."

Melpomaen nodded, hiding a knife in the folds of his skirt, then he and Feronil left the chamber, closely followed by the boy. When the two Elves walked down the stairs, the child stayed behind obediently, as Feronil had instructed. Only now did he realise that he still clutched the pouch. It was made of soft leather the like of which the boy had never seen before. He opened it, and almost let it drop.

The pouch was filled with gold and silver coins.

* * *  
"Elrohir! Open this door now, please! Elrohir, I really need to talk to you!"

It took a while for Elrohir to come to his senses. What a strange dream this had been, and how inappropriate to have such dreams of a Vala! He blushed to remember the details. Lórien certainly had an odd sense of humour!

"Elrohir! Open this door right now, or I shall kick it in!"

 

Elladan's voice now had a desperate quality, and the sound of his fists banging on the door made the younger twin wince. Elrohir would have loved to stay and bask in the afterglow of the dream, but instead he crawled off the bed, wrapping a sheet around his middle, and went to unbolt the door. Elladan stood outside, worry and anger obvious on his face.

"Did you think you could just lock yourself away and never speak of these things again?" he said, pushing his way past Elrohir into the room. He raked a hand through his hair, then he turned to Elrohir, who had closed the door behind them.

"I want to apologise, Elrohir - it was not right to talk to you in such a way in front of others."

Elrohir did not answer. He knew there was more to come - the part of this conversation he had dreaded the most.

"You said Orophin grovelled at your feet."

Elrohir looked up. Elladan was calm, but his eyes told of fear and anger. The younger twin shook his head.

"I was upset, Elladan. It meant nothing. I was only trying to hurt you. Please forgive me."

Elrohir walked over to the bed and sat down. He ached all over, as if he had just returned from two hours of sparring with Glorfindel. Elladan knelt down in front of him, resting his hands on his twin's knees.

"Did you forget that we are brothers, Elrohir? Do you not think that I can tell truth from lie when it comes to you? I want to hear the truth - has anything happened between you and my husband that I should know of?"

Elrohir took his brother’s hands and pressed them gently.

"Elladan - the only thing you must know about your husband is that he loves you. Only you, and nobody else. He would never look at another." He sighed. "It is true, I find him very fair, and had it not been so very obvious all along that his heart is yours, I might have tried to pursue him. I - I kissed him."

Elladan pushed Elrohir's hands away and jumped up, staring at his brother in disbelief.

"You - kissed my husband?"

Elrohir looked at Elladan with pleading eyes.

"Please, do not hold this against me. When I woke up in the Healing House, he was there, and I thought I was dreaming, and so... I would not have done it had I known that it was for real. I - I sometimes feel very lonely."

Elladan's head spun. His first impulse was to hit his brother, hard, and return some of the pain he suffered, but then he remembered the many times he had followed Elrohir's admirers with wishful and envious eyes. He had felt bad about it, but he - had sometimes felt very lonely.

For a while, the two brothers stared at each other without a word. Elrohir's hear beat like a drum for fear that he might have lost his brother now.

Finally, Elladan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You are my brother, and I love you. Nothing will change that. But I want an honest answer: do you love Orophin?"

Elrohir had feared this question ever since Elladan had come to his room. He knew that he could not lie to his brother, Elladan knew him far to well.

"No, Elladan. No, I do not love him," he finally replied, and to his great surprise and Elladan's relief, this was the truth.

* * *  
"They are coming."

Glorfindel turned to Erestor and nodded. The warrior did not know what or who he was fighting for, or what this battle was about. He was still confused, but this he knew: the Orcs were the enemy. He looked at Erestor. The Elf was exhausted, and did not look well. But Glorfindel saw the determination in his eyes and the fist closed in an iron grip around the knife. Suddenly, Glorfindel felt overwhelmed by the need to protect the other. How could that be? Only days ago, he had tried to kill Erestor. The wound on the other's shoulder was of his, Glorfindel's making. And now he found himself wishing he could take Erestor in his arms and hold him tight.

What madness was this?

Erestor, noticing that he was being watched, turned to Glorfindel. There was so much he wanted to say, but how could he tell Glorfindel that he loved him, talk of Estorel and the happy life they had had, if the other would throw his words back in his face as if all this meant nothing to him?

The black-haired Elf smiled sadly. Of course it meant nothing to Glorfindel. He did not remember. As far as he was concerned, there was no Estorel, no happy life, no Last Homely House - and no Erestor. Whatever world Glorfindel lived in, there was no place for a boring advisor anymore.

"Does your shoulder still hurt?" Glorfindel asked, trying to break the awkward mood.

Erestor shrugged, but did not answer. What could he say? No wound could ever hurt as much as the pain in his heart.

Without thinking, Glorfindel bent down and pressed a kiss on Erestor's lips. The advisor gasped in surprise, and the warrior used this moment to intensify the kiss. He had no idea why he was doing this, but he knew that he enjoyed it - a lot!

Maybe this was not the wisest thing to do when an army of Orcs was about to attack, but this was - right. No, better than right. He put an arm around Erestor and pulled him closer, which was a little difficult, as his sword and one of Erestor's knives were trapped between them, digging in painfully.

Finally, the two separated, and Erestor stared at Glorfindel, eyes shining with hope.

"Are you sure that we have kissed before?" Glorfindel asked after a while, and Erestor's heart fell.

"You do not remember then," he stated sadly.

Glorfindel shook his head.

"No, I do not."

The warrior frowned when he saw the sadness in the advisor’s face.

"I am absolutely sure we never kissed before, Erestor. I cannot imagine that I could have forgotten a thing as precious and sweet as your kiss."

Glorfindel gently ran the back of his hand down Erestor's cheek. The other Elf leaned into this unexpected caress, and closed his eyes, purring softly.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Melpomaen, who had held his breath while he and Feronil had been walking down the stairs, let out a long sigh of relief upon seeing Orophin. The warrior stood with his back to the two Elves, his tall, broad-shouldered figure wrapped in a cloak. The tavern was empty save for the innkeeper but, upon receiving one of Feronil's icy glares, the man immediately dropped the cloth he had been using to dry the glasses and hurried to disappear through the kitchen door, pulling it closed behind him.

Feronil waited a few moments to make sure they really were alone, before approaching Orophin.

"I never thought I would say such a thing, but I am really delighted to see you. Did you find Celeborn? Can we finally leave this midden of a village and return to the fair banks of the Bruinen? I am fairly tired of..."

The figure in front of him turned around, and Feronil broke off his little rant, staring at the stranger open-mouthed.

"Who are you?" Melpomaen gasped, taking a step back.

"My name is Elcallon," the other replied, bowing his head in greeting. "Orophin told me to come here."

There was a moment of silence. Feronil looked at Elcallon with suspicion.

"And where, if I may ask, is Orophin?"

Elcallon sighed deeply and shrugged his shoulders.

"The last time I saw him, he was in the dungeon," he replied.

"The dungeon? The dungeon? Is he insane? Why in the Valar name is he in the dungeon?" Feronil hissed, trying hard to keep his voice down. "He is not supposed to be in the dungeon! He is supposed to be here and save our backsides!"

"He saved my life," Elcallon explained, "then he gave me his clothes so I could leave the palace, and he stayed behind."

Feronil looked Elcallon over, then he groaned.

"For a realm with no Elves, there is an amazing number of our kin running around here. Come, let us return to our chambers, this is not the place to discuss these things."

They went up the stairs, only to find the water boy sitting there, huddled in a corner and still clutching the pouch with the gold Feronil had given to him. He stared at the three Elves with big eyes, and his relief about their return was obvious.

"You are back," he whispered, then he got up to his feet and rushed to Feronil’s side, clinging to the Elf’s long leg. “You are back! You are back! You are back!”

Feronil tried to shake him off, but to no avail. He noticed with disgust that the boy wiped his snotty nose on his leggings.

"You have amazing powers of observation, fleabag," Feronil grumbled. "Now let go of my leg and hurry back to our room, before we all fall over you and break our necks!”

The child let go, but grabbed Feronil’s shirttail. He was determined not to lose his big friend again!

Feronil felt like a mother hen as he ushered his headless chickens back into the chamber. Why oh why had he only allowed Melpomaen to talk him into this madness!

* * *

The king had gone this way through the secret corridors hundreds, if not thousands of times in his life, but never with a knife to his throat before. It was difficult not to stumble and fall, because there was no torch to light his way, and he could not see a thing. The Elf behind him, however, did not hesitate a moment in his steps. The king had observed the sharp sight of the Elves in Elcallon before, so he was not surprised, but still: stumbling and maybe getting his throat cut in the process was something he intended to avoid at all costs.

"How much longer?" the Elf hissed, adding a little pressure to the blade. The king swallowed hard, felling the cold metal press in his skin.

"There is a door to the right, after the next turn. It's the entrance to the chambers of my Elves."

Orophin laughed humourlessly.

"Your Elves? Should you be lucky enough to live to see the end of this day, you will not have any Elves left for you to keep, Man."

"You would not kill me," the king said, hoping that his voice would not waver. "Elves do not kill."

"Oh, we do not?" Orophin laughed again, and pushed the Man forward. "I have to disappoint you - we do kill. At least this is what you told Elcallon. We are cowards, are we not? Killing innocents? Stealing babies? So why should I waste even a moment to consider sparing your miserable life?"

"I know that those stories are not true, but you must understand..." the king began, but a hard shove in his back cut him off.

"I ‘must’ absolutely nothing. And all the worse then, for it means that you and your forefathers lied to your prisoners intentionally."

One more turn, and really, there it was, the door.

Orophin saw the handle of the secret door. He pressed it down, using his elbow, and the door sprang open.

"You go first, just in case of unexpected surprises on the other side," Orophin hissed, and pushed the king forward.

The two were greeted by the sight of two Elves with very confused expressions on their faces. The female was with child, and the one who stood beside her, holding her hand, was probably her spouse.

"My king, what is happening?" she asked, obviously scared, and placed her hand protectively over her belly.

"It is happening that you will be free," Orophin answered in the king's place, for his majesty did not dare to speak with the cold steel of the blade pressing against his throat.

"Free? Free of what? What has happened? Who are you?" Elfaël asked, then, seeing the intruder's ears, took a step back and gasped in surprise. "You are an Elf? How can this be? Have you seen Elcallon? My king...?"

"I am Orophin, and you have been lied to all your lives. You have no king. Elcallon is fine, I hope. There are thousands and thousands of us, very much alive, from Imladris to Lothlórien and Mirkwood to Gondor. I will explain everything to you later, but now we must make haste. Pray tell, where is lord Celeborn?"

This flood of information was too much to process for Elfaël, so he only made a vague gesture in direction of the balcony.

Orophin turned his head, and indeed – there stood the tall figure of Celeborn.

“My lord!” he cried, overwhelmed with joy, “My lord! It is I, Orophin! I have come to bring you home!”

But Celeborn did not move; there was no sign of joy or even recognition on his face. When Orophin looked into his lord’s clear blue eyes and saw no expression or life in them, he began to realise that something was very, very wrong here.

* * *

"Had I known of your incompetence, I would have fought this war alone!"

Firinwë stomped her foot, and Finwë rolled his eyes.

"Mind your words. Is it my fault that none of your information was correct? It was you, my beloved grandchild, who said we could weaken them by separating Glorfindel from his family. And what does he do? Follows Erestor and this Nonfindel individual back to their people! And as we are already talking about it: why have you never mentioned that Glorfindel has a brother?"

"Is it my responsibility to keep track of everybody’s family tree? I though you were the all-knowing, all-seeing Vala around here, not I!"

"No, the all-knowing, all-seeing Vala is currently my brother. At the moment, I am merely an Elf with a little more power than the rest of you, doomed to live in this cave and be separated from my kin. If I still were a Vala, I would not need a hysterical female with a questionable fashion sense to get back my power and place among the Valar!"

Firinwë glared at him.

"Now that does it. Do you think I need you to get what I want? I am the one with the ring! I am the one with the power! Had I known how weak you are, I would have done this on my own, and victory would have been mine long ago! You have not kept any of your promises. I did not get Glorfindel, and Celeborn has disappeared. But I will be the Lady of the Golden Wood, even if I have to kill every single Galadhrim out there with my bare hands!"

She turned around, heading for the doors. Finwë got up from his seat.

"Wait! What are you planning to do?"

"I will do what would have been your duty – win this war.”

Firinwë stormed out, and Finwë closed his fingers into fists. Enough with the pleasantries – it was time to show those annoying Firstborn and his arrogant granddaughter that he was the one who set the rules by which this game had to be played.

“Bring me my armour and sword!” he yelled. “I shall go to battle, and they will crawl in the dust before me,” he added to himself. For a moment, he considered breaking out in maniacal laughter, but then he decided that this would be too much drama, even for him.

* * *

“Ada Elladan! Ada Elladan! You must come, quickly!”

Eldanar pulled impatiently at Elladan’s leggings, interrupting the discussion of the two brothers.

“Why are you here, Eldanar? I told you to go to bed,” Elladan chastised his young son. The child, clad in his favourite ducky pyjamas and clutching his toy dragon Tathar close to his chest, looked a little guilty, and shuffled his feet.

“I went to bed, ada, but you did not say that I should stay there.”

Elladan rolled his eyes.

“You will make an excellent diplomat one day, Eldanar.”

“Will you come now, ada? And you too, uncle Elrohir. I must show you something!”

With that, the Elfling ran towards his room. Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other, then shrugged simultaneously and followed the child.

Eldanar had climbed on to the windowsill, and pointed excitedly out of the window.

“You must tell him not to go, ada!” he cried.

The twins stepped to the window and looked out of it. A tall figure was crossing the garden, heading for the forest. The long, dark hair was flowing in the wind.

Elrohir gasped, and pressed his hands to the cold glass of the window.

“Did he say anything, Eldanar?” he asked, not taking his gaze from Námo.

Eldanar nodded.

“Yes, he said he had to go, but that you would see him again one day.”

Námo had halted. He turned around, and looked up to the window where Elrohir stood, gazing longingly at the former Vala of Death. He smiled at Elrohir, and the Elf thought he had never seen such a beautiful and yet terrible thing before. Námo rose his hand and waved shortly at Elrohir, then he disappeared, like morning fog once the sun comes out.

* * *

“So, let me sum this up. This king of yours has Elves for pets? Like... cats or canaries?”

Elcallon nodded, and Feronil continued to pace the room up and down.

“Could he not have got himself a guinea pig like everyone else?”

“What is a guinea pig?” Elcallon asked, and Feronil groaned.

“A cousin of this Elf here,” he said, pointing at Melpomaen. “But his family is of secondary interest now. Orophin was left behind in a dungeon?”

Elcallon confirmed this.

“In a dungeon deep inside the bowels of the palace?”

“Yes,” Elcallon replied.

Feronil pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Wonderful. Brilliant. Just splendid. So Orophin sits in a dungeon deep inside the bowels of a palace that, I have to add, has more guards than the Lady Galadriel’s broom closet. And all I have to get him out of there is an Elf who does not know what a guinea pig is, an Elf who has the brains of a guinea pig, lice-boy here and my brilliant, razor-sharp mind.”

He flopped down on his bed and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh you Valar up there, down here, or wherever it is that you dwell at the moment, what have I got myself into? I am a genius, but still I am at loss here. I need your help!”

There was a knock on the door, interrupting Feronil's lament. Melpomaen started and looked at Feronil with big, fearful eyes.

“Great. Probably the chambermaid with the royal guard in town. With my luck, she will bring more children with head lice along. What a day…”

He dragged his tired body up from the bed, then went to the door and opened it.

An Elf of stunning beauty stood outside. He was dressed from head to toe in white hunter’s garb, and his silver blond hair, not unlike the Lady Galadriel’s, was decorated with tiny white flowers, bathing him in a sweet, lovely scent.

Feronil stared, and the stranger gave him a blinding smile.

“Well met, Master Feronil. My apologies for the delay. Now please tell me – how may I be of assistance?”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To fully understand the end of this chapter, I recommend that you read SHELTER, if you haven't done so yet. 
> 
> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Orophin had to swallow hard upon seeing his lord, but he quickly composed himself and returned his attention to the two other Elves.

"Give me your sash," Orophin ordered, and Elfaël, too surprised and confused to ask questions, undid the garment and passed it to the intruder. Both he and his wife stared at Orophin as he used the sash to bind the king's hands behind his back.

"Why are you doing this to our king?" Eledwen asked, attempting to get up, despite the heavy weight of the child she was carrying. Elfaël put his hand on her shoulder, trying to placate her, but she was too upset to notice the gesture.

"You have no right to treat our king in such a way," she said, "I demand that you release him immediately! It is the likes of you who have been our people's ruin! Go away!"

Orophin, whose sole interest had been Celeborn, looked at the two Elves. They were like children - for hundreds and hundreds of years, they had heard nothing but lies and fairytales. How could he expect them to believe him - a stranger, dirty and intruding upon their haven without permission, only identifiable as one of their kin by his ears?

The king suspected a momentary inattentiveness in Orophin and tried to get up. But Orophin saw the movement from the corner of his eye and spun around.

"You sit down here and keep quiet, Man. I would hate to ruin this beautiful carpet."

Orophin waved the knife at the king, and the man obeyed. The Elf knew that he was not dealing with a fool here, and that even the tiniest moment of distraction could mean doom. But he had to take the risk.

In his youth, Orophin had had a reputation for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and his sharp tongue had been feared by all who had dealings with him.

But he had always known how to talk to children.

He went over to the two Elves, and Eledwen paled. She gazed first at Orophin, then at the knife in his hand.

"Please, do not hurt us... or our child... take what you want, but do not..." she begged. Orophin knelt down in front of her, put the knife away and took her hand in his.

"My lady," he said, using the same tone he used when Eldanar woke up crying after a nightmare, "it is not my intention or wish to hurt either you, your husband or your Elfling. I know that all this must be terribly frightening for you. But please, you must listen to me. I have only your wellbeing in mind.

"That Elf over there," Orophin added, pointing at Celeborn, "is the lord of my realm, Lothlórien. He has been kidnapped and brought here against his will. His family and friends worry for him, and I have come here to bring him home. Would you not be worried and sad too, my lady, if your husband were to disappear? Would you not cry and hope he would return soon?"

Eledwen nodded. Her hand had stopped trembling.

Orophine lowered his voice, so the king would not understand what he said.

"So you will understand that I had to come here. You have all been lied to, my lady. You, your husband and Elcallon."

"Where is Elcallon?" she interrupted him.

"He was held prisoner in the dungeons. I freed him and sent him to friends of mine who will look after him. If you stay here, your child will be lied to and held prisoner as well. Do you not want it to see all the wonders of Arda? Do you not want it to walk among the Golden Trees? Would you really rather have it spend all its life here, in this golden cage? Never to see anything but walls, living the life of a well-kept pet rather than that of a free Elf?"

For a moment, there was silence. Eledwen withdrew her hand from Orophin's, and put it on her stomach. She searched Elfaël gaze, and he nodded.

"We will trust you," she finally said, turning to Orophin again. "Elcallon seems to have trusted you, and I feel... I feel that you do not mean us any harm. But I cannot leave; our daughter wants to be born soon!"

Orophin got up.

"Let me see to my lord Celeborn, I will return to you in a moment."

Eledwen shook her head.

"Your lord will not understand anything. He cannot hear, he cannot see, and he cannot speak. Elcallon tended to him. We have tried everything in our power to help him, but he is a prisoner of darkness. He will not know who you are."

Orophin hurried to Celeborn's side. His lord stood there like a statue, his eyes staring at Orophin without seeing him.

"My lord? My lord Celeborn, it is I, Orophin!"

Orophin waved his hand in front of Celeborn’s eyes, but there was no reaction. He reached out and touched Celeborn's hand. The lord started and took a step back, stumbled over the first step of the stairs and would have fallen if Orophin had not caught him in time.

He could see and feel Celeborn's distress, but he had no idea how to help him. White, burning rage grew in him, and he turned to the king.

"What have you done to him, Man," he growled, "tell me at once, or I swear by all that I hold dear that you will not live to see another morning!"

"I haven't done anything! He was as you see him the day he was brought here!" the king protested, and he broke out in cold sweat. Orophin really, truly scared him. No man had ever had such an effect on him. When Orophin stalked towards him, knife again firmly in his hand, the king decided that it was now or never and kicked the table in front of him across the room.

"Guards! Guards! Your king is attacked!" he yelled, and immediately Orophin could hear the sound of men approaching, the noise of their heavy boots and the metallic clinking of their armour. Within moments, the doors would burst open, the room would be filled with armed soldiers, and they would be lost.

"You Valar, help me..." Orophin whispered.

A peal of thunder shook the palace, and out of nowhere, a beautiful Elf, clad all in white, appeared right in front of Orophin's nose. His long, silverblond hair was decorated with tiny white flowers, and he was a bit out of breath.

"Dear, dear, dear," he said, more to himself than those present, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve. "This is such a busy day! But here I am. So speak, child of the Golden Wood, what can I do for you, your friends and the old rascal over there?"

* * *

"I just cannot believe it," Feronil groaned. "For once in my lifetime, I see a real Vala, and what happens? He transports me right into the middle of a battle! What sins did I commit in a former life to deserve such treatment?"

Melpomaen tapped his foot impatiently.

"It is all your fault. When Lórien asked what he could do for us, all you said was 'get us out of here', you did not specify where to. And now stop complaining, Feronil, and take this sword. You might need it."

Melpomaen crouched down and picked up one of the many weapons that littered the ground, trying to ignore the corpses. He swallowed hard - most were Orcs, but he could also see some fallen Galadhrim. Feronil followed his example, then he knelt down in front of the boy, making sure that his body hid the grisly sight from the child's eyes.

"Are the pixies dead?" the boy asked, trying to look over Feronil's shoulder. The advisor grabbed the boy by the shoulders and shook him slightly.

"No, the pixies are only sleeping. Now listen, lice-boy," he said, "climb on my shoulders and get up into that tree. And stay there, no matter what happens to any other of us! Do not make even the tiniest noise, and do not try to run away or anything similarly silly. You stay up there till everything is over!"

The boy only nodded, then did as he was told and climbed the tree, using Feronil's body as a ladder. Once he had reached a large branch, he closed his eyes and clung to it for dear life.

"So, that one is out of the way. Do you know how to handle a sword, Elcallon?" Feronil asked.

Elcallon shook his head.

"No, I was only trained in the handling of bow and arrow. We were not allowed any weapons of steel."

Feronil growled. "I wish that king of yours was here. I would show him where he could shove his bow... now let me see..."

He stepped over a few bodies and found a decapitated Orc. Even in death, he still clutched his bow, and Feronil had to use considerable force to pry the weapon from his fingers. He also picked up a quiver and arrows, then returned to his friends.

"Here," he said, pressing the weapon into the hands of the flabbergasted Elcallon. "I hope you really know what to do with it. If not, use the arrows as toothpicks and run as fast as you can."

* * *

The door was pushed open with such force that the wood splintered. The king's guards stormed into the room, only to find their sovereign sitting half-naked in a chair.

"My king!" the captain called, rushing to his side. "Are you unharmed? What happened? Where are the attackers?"

The king stared at some point in the distance, his mouth half open.

"They… there was this… and then a lightning… and they disappeared…" he stammered. His words made no sense to the captain, who assumed that his king must have received a blow to the head. So he did not comment, but freed the king instead.

"They have stolen my Elves! My jewels! Arm your men! I want you to bring them back to me immediately!"

The captain looked at the king with a puzzled expression on his face.

"My king, where have they gone? They can't be far, I'll see to it that the palace is searched."

The king grabbed the man by the collar and shook him hard.

"Did you not listen to what I said, you fool? They disappeared! Vanished into thin air! Poof! Gone!"

"Elves know bad magic, my king," the captain tried to reason, "they have powers beyond our understanding, and maybe you should count yourself lucky that they are gone. Who knows what they could have done to you in time! The crimes of the Elves are without number, just remember what they did to the unlucky Lord Annathar!"

The king realised that he was in a fix. Either he could confess now that Elves were no danger, and reveal himself as a liar in front of his men. Or he could maintain the lies but have no reason to chase after his "jewels".

He let go of the man.

"Leave me alone, all of you," he ordered, "I do not wish for company."

The guards hastened to leave the place, for they felt that something uncanny had happened there. As soon as the last had left, the king sat down and ran his hands through his hair. The room, usually filled with the presence of his jewels, was now empty and lifeless. A half-full glass of wine stood on a table, and Eledwen’s crocheting, unfinished and never to be completed now, had fallen to the floor. His jewels were gone, stolen away from him.

At least his most precious jewel was still in his power. Ah, Elcallon… he would make sure that his Elf could never run away again. The walls had to be increased in height, extra locks fitted and maybe a chain would come in handy as well. Nothing heavy – he thought of a slim, elegant steel chain, maybe adorned with some golden charms. With a collar.

The king closed his eyes and tried to imagine his Elf, wearing nothing but the chain around his neck. He felt much better at this prospect, and reached for the wine. He would order the chain first thing in the morning.

* * *

"Oh Elfaël, where are we?" Eledwen asked, moving even closer to her husband. The two Elves looked around – never had they seen such a place! Majestic buildings, trees and flowers of unbelievable beauty, and, most amazing thing of all, the soft splashing of the waves.

"The sea", Elfaël whispered, overwhelmed by the sight. The horizon was hidden in grey mist. Upon seeing the sea, its marvellous blueness, and hearing the cries of the seagulls, Elfaël and Eledwen were overwhelmed by longing. They felt as if somebody was calling them.

A small, elegant ship lay at anchor in the harbour. It shone golden and white in the bright sunlight, and a mild breeze softly moved the silvery sails.

"What is that?" Elfaël whispered.

"This, my dear friends, is the ship that will bring you to the place where you and your Elfling will find happiness," a gentle, deep voice behind them said. Both spun around, and faced a very tall, very regal looking Elf in blue robes. His face was young, but his eyes showed ages of wisdom. The oddest thing about him, though, was his beard. Elfaël felt his gaze fixing on this facial adornment – beards were unheard of among Elves!

"You… have a beard…" he said. The other chuckled.

"Indeed. They say that only the oldest and wisest of our kind will grow beards eventually, so you can see it as a sign of my wisdom." He stroked his beard, then lowered his voice and added with a wink to Elfaël: "In truth, I grew this thing because the ladies are very fond of it. But this is just between you and me."

He coughed, then bowed in direction of Eledwen.

"I am Círdan, the shipwright. Lórien has brought you here so that I may sail with you to Valinor, the place of eternal happiness. This world is too confusing for you, my children, who have been kept unknowing for so many years. In Valinor, you will learn about your people. And you will find it far easier to find an Elfling-sitter than here."

"But what about Elcallon? Where is he? Will he also come to Valinor?" Eledwen asked, worried about the fate of her friend.

"Eventually," Círdan replied. "His journey has not come to an end yet. But yes, one day, you will see him again in Valinor. And now, if you please – board my ship, for my wife is waiting for me with the dinner."

Elfaël and Eledwen looked at each other. Then Elfaël smiled and took her hand, and together they followed Círdan, starting their journey to Valinor. And while the sun went down like a red ball of fire, the two Elves sailed over the sea and out of this story.

* * *  
Erestor would have loved to ask Orophin where in the name of all Valar but Námo he had come from all of a sudden, with Celeborn in tow, but he was too busy keeping an Orc from stabbing Glorfindel. All he managed was a puzzled glance before he had to return his attention to the attackers. His wound hurt, he felt weak, and he could not afford to let his guard slip for even a moment.

Orophin's confusion was not less than Erestor's. One moment he had awaited certain death at the hands of the palace guards in Breon, and the next he and Celeborn found themselves in the middle of a battle, Elfaël and Eledwen gone.

Just what had Lórien been thinking? Celeborn was unable to defend himself, so Orophin saw it as his first duty to get his lord out of danger. He grabbed Celeborn by the arm and pulled him along. Celeborn followed him, stumbling again and again over roots, stones and fallen Orcs. Orophin found a huge, hollow tree, long dead from a lightning-strike, and he pushed Celeborn into the opening, hoping his lord would have the wits to stay where he was. Celeborn looked frightened, but he sat down and did not move.

Orophin picked up a sword, gave Celeborn a last, worried glance, then he returned to Erestor, determined to help his friends in this battle.

* * *

The battle was not over yet, but it was obvious to Rúmil that they would be victorious. Already Orcs were beginning to flee, and the strength of those who still fought the Elves seemed to wane. While every battle was horrible and should be avoided wherever possible, Rúmil could not help feeling pride and awe. Pride because his plan had worked and because they would win, and awe to see so many of his kin fighting side by side. Here, in the middle of this battle, there was no place for the sophisticated arrogance of the Galadhrim or the rebellious wildness of the Mirkwood Elves. They were all Elves, and no matter what had happened in the past, they were now a unity. And they all followed Gil-galad’s orders without question, even the Mirkwood Elves.

Gil-galad – what a sight! To see this legend fighting was a revelation. Nothing poets and bards had written about the former High King did him justice. His enemies did not stand a chance, and loyal Amaris was by his side at all times. Rúmil briefly wondered how Elrond might feel about this, but then he was pulled back to reality in the most unpleasant way possible.

"Do not think that you have won this battle yet," a mocking female voice could be heard. "So far, you have dealt with amateurs, but now you will have to cross your blade with a professional."

Rúmil spun around, and took a step back at the sight of Lady Firinwë in armour, a large sword in her hands and an evil grin on her face.

"It was you who ruined everything," she said, walking slowly towards Rúmil, "it was you who detected the ring. You made Galadriel see the truth, and now you try to become Lord of Lothlórien. But nobody, absolutely nobody will rule Lothlórien but me! It is mine, should always have been mine!"

Rúmil retreated further and shook his head.

"I will not raise my sword against a lady," Rúmil said, and Firinwë laughed.

"Very well then, so you shall die all the faster. But your death will not be less painful, I assure you. Too long have you crossed my plans. I will cut you into small pieces, and send them to Galadriel as an expression of my appreciation."

She attacked, and it was only thanks to Rúmil’s honed reflexes that he was able to counter the blow. Firinwë swung her blade, and blow after blow rained down on Rúmil, who hid behind his shield and was taken completely by surprise by the force of his attacker.

"Very well then," he hissed, "you want a fight, you will have it."

He attacked, and the blades collided with a deafening clash of metal.

* * *

"Celeborn… he is here!" Melpomaen cried, pulling on Feronil's sleeve. "He is here! I can feel it! He is here! And he is scared! Come quickly, Feronil, you must help him!"

Feronil, whose attention was fixed on two Orcs running in their direction, pushed Melpomaen away.

"I have no time for this now, Blossom. I am currently too busy not getting killed! I will not go chasing some figment of your imagination! Hold onto that sword, kill Orcs and leave me alone!"

The enemies attacked, and Feronil forgot all about Melpomaen, who stabbed blindly at one Orc, disabling him by sheer luck.

Melpomaen saw that the advisor would be no help to him, so he turned around and began to search for Celeborn, dragging the large sword behind him. He knew his beloved was here, though he had no idea how this could have happened. But he felt his presence, his fear. Melpomaen had to find him, because Celeborn needed his help.

* * *

The war cries of the Orcs came closer and closer, but Celeborn could not hear them. All he knew was that the ground was trembling, and he could smell smoke, Orcs and the nauseating metallic stench of blood. He had fought too many battles not to know where he was. But how had he come here? And why was he here? The last thing he could remember was falling, then somebody gently holding him. There had been a white flash in his head, and next thing he knew, somebody was dragging him along and pushing him into the place where he was now. Celeborn reached out, and his hands touched the tree, felt the bark.

Celeborn was terrified. He had been left in a tree, obviously in the middle of a battlefield, and he had no means at all to defend himself if he should be attacked. Even if he had had a weapon, he could not have used it. He was helpless, and had to rely fully on the mercy of others.

Suddenly, big hands with claw-like fingers closed around Celeborn's neck, and he was dragged out of his hiding place. The pressure cut off his air supply and the claws dug deep into his skin. Celeborn struggled, but without being able to see or hear anything, he was doomed. His heart raced. He clenched his teeth when his head was hit against the tree, but he was too close to unconsciousness to really register the pain.

Just when Celeborn thought that this was his end, the hands let go of him abruptly, and he slumped to the ground. His hands pressed into the soft forest ground while he took in great gulps of air. He coughed and retched, trying to breathe again. His head was spinning. What had happened to his attacker?

A piece of cloth touched his face, and in that moment he knew who had come to his rescue.

Celeborn reached out. He needed to be sure.

* * *

Melpomaen's fingers cramped painfully around the hilt of the sword, and it seemed to him that it weighed a ton. He had no idea how he would use it; he doubted that the Uruk'hai would be overly impressed by his non-existent fighting skills. Every instinct he had told him to run, far away, to hide from the danger, but he could not leave Celeborn behind.

The Elf-lord had one arm wrapped firmly around Melpomaen's leg, needing the comfort of knowing that the young Elf was close by. He could feel how fear made the light body tremble. Celeborn sniffed, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He knew this stench, and now he knew what it was that scared Melpomaen so much. Uruks! He scrambled up and felt Melpomaen's hand holding a sword.

This was not right. It was he, Celeborn, who should have been the one protecting Melpomaen, not the other way round!

Never before had Celeborn felt so helpless and lost. It was less his own life that he feared for, but Melpomaen's. The Elf was still so young, there was so much he had not yet seen or done. Celeborn had wanted to be the one to show him.

It had been the knowledge of Melpomaen's affection that had let him survive the dark days of his imprisonment. He could not allow the young one to die. With all his might, he threw his weight in the direction of the stench, and while he did not hear the Uruk'hai roar, he could feel the pain of the blow to his face. Thrown back by its power, Celeborn stumbled and fell.

* * *

"I cannot believe that you are behind all this," Rúmil gasped, blocking another of Firinwë's blows.

"Did you think this was a "males-only" party? If so, you were wrong. You have escaped the Dark Lord's warriors, but you shall not escape me!"

Firinwë made a feint, which Rúmil easily avoided, despite his confusion.

"My lady," he said, taking a firm hold of his sword, "I do not wish to spill your blood."

"That is fortunate for me, as I have the wish to see yours spilled, and plenty of it!"

The lady had obviously gone insane; any further words would be a waste of breath. It was also obvious that she was a skilled fighter. She had, so Rúmil thought, fought her battles, just like Galadriel. He had to be careful not to underestimate her, or he would end up pinned to the ground.

Firinwë had one big advantage: Rúmil was already tired from the battle while she was rested and strong, and so she attacked him from all sides, trying to exhaust him further. Rúmil was an archer, and while his skills with the sword were fair, he was not a master of the blade. Her chances were good, and she knew it. This knowledge, combined with her hatred of Galadriel, made her attack with all her might, and Rúmil found himself driven back, away from the battlefield and his warriors.

'She tries to single me out,' he thought, 'separate me from my friends, so nobody will come to my aid. I am the sheep, she is the wolf.'

He ducked another blow, which missed his face only by a hair's breadth, and again Firinwë 's blade drove down, aiming for his chest. He managed to evade it, but stumbled over a root, and fell over backwards, losing his blade in the process. He tried to pick it up again, but Firinwë 's foot stomped down on his hand, fixing him to the ground. She put the tip of her blade on his chest and grinned.

"What a sorry sight! I wish Galadriel could see her little toy crawling in the mud! Well, maybe I will send her a drawing, along with your head. Farewell, it has been nice talking to you."

A push, and Rúmil screamed. The blade cut deep in his chest, and he was surprised for a moment that he felt no pain. There was only cold and darkness. Then the blade was pulled out, and the last thing he heard before he blacked out was Firinwë's satisfied laughter.

* * *

Gil-galad would never have admitted it, but he felt more alive than he had all those months before. They were fighting a battle whose purpose he had not quite understood yet, but right here, right now, among the angry roar of the Orcs and the clash of blades, he felt at home. He was needed, he had a purpose, and the adrenaline shooting through his veins made him almost delirious.

And Amaris, loyal, brave, beloved Amaris, was fighting by his side.

Gil-galad cast him a quick glance and admired the wild expression on his face. Amaris' eyes shone as in fever, and his enemies fell left and right, mowed down by the deadly blows the warrior dealt out with his sword.

Elrond and Glorfindel fought side by side, both trying to shield an injured Erestor from the enemy's attacks. The advisor did not look at all well, but the determined expression on his face made it clear that Erestor had not the slightest intention of retreating. How wrong he had been about Erestor. He had thought him a boring scroll shuffler, and now Gil could admire him fighting like a lion, despite his injury.

The sole focus of Erestor was Glorfindel's well-being, so much was obvious, and while the legendary Balrog slayer might have thought that he was defending his beloved, it was in fact Erestor who kept the enemies away from Glorfindel. There was something wild in Erestor's eyes, something not quite Elvish, and Gil-galad shivered for a moment. Erestor, he decided, was not an Elf he would want for an enemy.

"Could you stop daydreaming, please, and come here? I could use your assistance!" Amaris yelled, and when Gil-galad spun around, he saw his advisor besieged by two Orcs.

"Oh come on, two Orcs, and you cannot even handle them yourself? You fight like an Elfling!" Gil mocked, grabbing the two Orcs by the neck and banging their heads together. They yowled and slumped down in a very dirty, very smelly heap. Gil wiped his hands on his breeches, then gave Amaris a smug smile.

Amaris gasped for air.

"What was the reason again why I put up with you? Please tell me, I fear I have forgotten."

"Because I am amazing, wonderful, dashingly handsome, wise beyond measure of man, an outstanding warrior and because I have the virility of a dragon."

"Forget that I asked," Amaris grumbled, "let us rather return to more pleasant things - there is another Orc."

* * *

"Oh dear, two squirrels in a tree, what a lovely sight," Finwë mocked, shifting to sit more comfortably, careful not to crush the velvet of his coat.

"Who are you?" Nonfindel stared at the dark Elf who had appeared out of the blue and now sat beside him and Thranduil on the branch.

Finwë pretended to think about the question, and rubbed his chin.

"Who am I... now, let me see. I appear on this tree out of nowhere. I am powerful, mighty and full of magic, not to talk of irresistible and fair. If I wanted, I could kill you with a wink of my eye. Now who, little Elf, might I be?"

Nonfindel pressed as far back against the tree as he could, clutching Thranduil protectively to his chest.

"You - you are lord Námo..." he stammered. Finwë smiled, feeling no need to correct the Elf.

"Do not fret over names, my dear child - once this battle is over, I will be your owner," Finwë replied. He looked Nonfindel and his charge up and down, and a wolfish smile split his face.

"And my, what a delight will it be to own you and your sadly injured friend! You know, I always found the way Woodland Elves decorate their skin rather erotic. I guess I will have you marked the same way, you would make a lovely pair. I might even get you matching collars."

Maybe it was because Nonfindel's reactions were quicker than Finwë suspected, or because he did not expect the Elf to do anything at all but shrink in fear. But when Nonfindel's boot collided with Finwë's side, the former Vala tumbled over and fell from the tree, too surprised to react in any way. It was with great delight that Nonfindel heard the "thud" of Finwë's impact on the ground, and the pained groan that followed it.

"Am I delirious, or did you just kick the Vala of Death off this branch?" Thranduil asked after a moment of shock. Nonfindel shrugged.

"I am very choosy when it comes to sharing my branches."

"You are a raving lunatic," Thranduil gasped, then groaned at the pain in his rib cage. Nonfindel released his hold of the king a little, and smiled down at him.

"Your compliments make me blush. But better save your breath for now, you can tell me sweet flatteries later on."

Nonfindel began to hum a lullaby, and Thranduil decided that it was better not to argue with this mad Elf. This aside, he really thought that kicking the Vala of Death out of a tree was a very courageous thing to do.

Not that he would have told Nonfindel, of course.

* * *

Melpomaen fought bravely, but without a chance. He was no warrior, could barely lift the sword. Celeborn crouched behind him, clutching his stomach, and Melpomaen simply swung his blade from left to right in the hope of hitting the Uruk, while praying to all the Valar that at least Celeborn would be spared.

'This is all wrong,' Melpomaen thought, 'I should be in the library now, researching for a speech, and Celeborn should be sitting in the garden under a tree, listening to one of Lindir's songs. None of us should be here.'

A sharp, burning pain in his shoulder made Melpomaen cry out. It was followed by a second, similar pain in his thigh. He dropped the sword and looked down to see a black arrow embedded in his flesh. It hurt, oh how it hurt!

The pain brought tears to Melpomaen's eyes and he didn't notice the large Uruk'hai storming towards him until sharp claws dug into his chest, lifting him up and smashing him against the tree. Melpomaen screamed, and felt his legs hit against something soft – Celeborn, probably – before he was backhanded.

"Go away," Melpomaen screamed, trying to fight the Uruk'hai off with his bare hands, "you hurt me, leave me alone!"

The Uruk only laughed, and continued to smash the young Elf against the tree, over and over again, as a child might do with a rag doll. Melpomaen was sobbing; there was so much pain, and he was so scared. This had nothing to do with all the glorious tales of heroic fights he had read as an Elfling.

"I'm tired of playing with you," the Uruk snarled, "I'll snap your neck now and then I'll feed on your sweet flesh!"

Melpomaen struggled and fought, panic overwhelming him.

Then he heard the angry growl.

At first, Melpomaen thought the Uruk had been attacked by a Warg. He only heard a bark, and then the Uruk was fighting for his life.

Melpomaen, trying hard to stay conscious, realized that the blood pooling around him was his own. He slumped down, coming to rest on Celeborn's legs. He looked up to see if the Warg had managed to kill the Uruk, and had to realise that he had been wrong about the attacker.

It was Erestor. Yes, indeed, quiet, stern, boring Erestor, his jaws firmly locked around the Uruk's throat, blood spilling down over his chin from the deep wound his bite had inflicted. He shook his head and his pray from side to side. Melpomaen could not believe his eyes - how was this possible? Was he delirious? Maybe the arrows had been poisoned?

But no, it really was Erestor, tearing the Uruk into pieces with bare hands and teeth. The beast tried to fight the Elf off, but to no avail. A red cloud had settled on Erestor's mind, and all he could think of was the kill. The metallic taste of the blood in his mouth put him in a state of ecstasy, his enemy's yelps sounding like music in his ears. He let go for a second, only to bury his teeth in the back of the Uruk's neck again. He bit down, hard, feeling his sharp teeth cut through the leathery skin. He felt tendons snap and muscles rip apart, and finally, finally the crunch of breaking bones.

Erestor had made his kill.

The advisor pushed up on his hands and growled again. Then he turned his head, looking at Melpomaen, and the young Elf stared with terrified fascination at the Elf he had admired for centuries for his wisdom and kindness, stared at Erestor, who never lost his temper, Erestor, who now stood over his kill like a wolf over his prey, and Melpomaen had to think of Rabbit. Whatever had caused Erestor to lose his temper in this way, the young Elf saw that this was not lord Elrond's stern advisor anymore, but a creature of the wild, dangerous and not to be fooled with.

"Erestor! By Elbereth, are you injured?" Elrond came running, followed by Gil and Glorfindel, while Amaris and Legolas led the Mirkwood Elves after the retreating enemies, their war cries echoing through the wood. They would not let any of them leave the forest alive.

* * *

Firinwë almost jumped up and down at the sight of Rúmil’s motionless body on the ground. She lifted her sword to cut his head off. What a trophy! And she would make sure that she was watching when Galadriel got this little present!

"Well, Rúmil, in your case what the bards say seems to be true: love makes you lose your head."

"The only one losing a head here is you," a calm voice said behind her, and Firinwë almost dropped her sword in shock.

"You…. You… what are you doing here?" she hissed, taking a firm hold of her sword and stalking towards her opponent. There was no fear, only determination in this voice, and Firinwë knew that this would be a fight to the death.

With a scream, she stormed forward.

* * *

Now this had to be seen to be believed! The impertinence! The bleeding gall of this worm to attack him, Finwë! The Vala shook his head, then he stood up, ready to tear Nonfindel to pieces.

"You will do no such thing," a deep voice boomed over Finwë, and when he looked up, he paled.

"Manwë... what a pleasant surprise to see you here. Why, is anything amiss?"

Manwë, manifesting his presence in a glorious, formless light of incredible brightness, radiated disapproval and anger.

"Did you really think that we would let you complete your evil scheme? Allow you to ruin Eru's creation and bring death and despair over Arda?"

"I suppose that is a rhetorical question...?" Finwë asked, giving Manwë his most charming smile.

The Vala shook his head.

"It was a dark day when you were created, and you have caused us all much pain, trouble and paperwork. Enough of it, I say! This battle is over, and I will take you with me. I am sure that Eru will find a suitable punishment for your crimes."

Finwë looked around. He could only hope that Firinwë would finally use the ring, or he would face eternity scrubbing pans in the kitchen of Mandos, or returned to Arda as a dung beetle.

"Do not hope for Firinwë to save you," Manwë snapped. "She will get what she deserves."

Finwë's shoulders drooped. He should have listened to Lórien – females were nothing but trouble.

***

Galadriel blocked Firinwë’s attack with playful ease. She was worried sick for Rúmil, who lay on the ground, unmoving, but before she could look after him, she had to get Firinwë out of her way. She could only hope that rage would make her careless. Galadriel had not fought in battle for thousands of years, and while she was a master with the sword, she had not practiced for centuries.

She could not tell why she had come here. It had felt right. It had been something she had to do. She had wanted to be by Rúmil’s side, even fighting by his side if she had to, and now, seeing him injured, she knew that the Valar had sent her here.

While Firinwë was driven by hate, anger and greed for power, Galadriel’s motivation was love and worry for the life of her loved one. This made up for years of missed training, and Firinwë soon realised that she would not win this fight. It was time to make a decision.

The moment had come, the moment she had been waiting for all along. The ring had been calling to her for weeks and weeks, but she had never dared to answer.

"Galadriel – let us stop this fighting,” she said, quickly taking two steps back. “We should talk about it. See? I throw away my weapon, if you do the same."

Firinwë dropped her sword to the ground, and Galadriel halted her attack. She looked at Firinwë with suspicion.

"Why this change of mind all of a sudden?" she asked, neither taking her eyes of Firinwë nor dropping her weapon.

Firinwë shrugged.

"I feel that we should be wiser than our warriors who know no other means of communication than killing each other. Drop your weapon, and I shall show you something you have never seen before. It will change your life for all eternity."

"I will not drop my weapon. You can show me whatever it is whether I hold my sword or not."

"Very well then," Firinwë said, looking insulted. "I shall show you, but know that this display of mistrust from your side hurts me deeply."

She reached into one of her pockets, and before Galadriel could react, Firinwë had pulled out the ring.

"The battle is over," she laughed, "for you and everybody else here!"

In front of the terrified Galadriel, she attempted to put the ring on her finger.

* * *

Erestor noticed neither his friends nor Glorfindel. He ran over to the tree where Celeborn sat, holding Melpomaen, and crouched down beside him.

"Melpomaen, please speak to me," he begged, stroking the dirty, blood-matted hair of the young Elf. Melpomaen blinked and tried to say something, but then his strength left him, and he lost consciousness. Erestor stroked Melpomaen's face, trying to wake him, but Melpomaen did not move. Erestor swallowed hard, then he picked up the young one, cradling him in his arms.

"Give him to me, Erestor, you are injured, let me look after him," Gil-galad offered, having reached the three Elves. Erestor growled at the High King, and without further ado, carried Melpomaen away, from time to time pressing a soft kiss on the unconscious Elf's forehead.

"Did he just growl at me?" Gil asked, scratching his head. Elrond, who was kneeling beside Celeborn to check the Elf for injuries, looked up and nodded.

"And why is that?" Gil asked, slightly insulted.

Elrond helped Celeborn up and took his arm to lead him back to the camp. He looked at Gil-galad thoughtfully.

"Never come between a wolf and his pup, Gil."

Then he hurried after Erestor as quickly as supporting Celeborn allowed, for a healer was needed. After a moment of contemplation, Gil followed him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Firinwë was just about to slip the ring onto her finger when she felt a terrible pain in her back. She stumbled forward and fell down face first, sending the ring flying through the air. Galadriel leapt to catch it before it landed in the mud.

She almost dropped it again when it touched her hand. There was such an air of cold and dread about it; the urge to run away and hide was almost overwhelming. At the same time, she longed to wear it, use it – but no. Though it cost her all the willpower she could muster not to give in to the longing, she slipped the ring into her pocket and hurried to Rúmil's side.

Galadriel could see the hilt of Rúmil's knife protrude from Firinwë's back. Was she dead? Galadriel could not have cared less. Rúmil was still alive, but had put all the strength he had left into that one last attack. How he had managed to throw the knife she did not know. Rúmil loved her, had always sworn he would give his own life for hers.

Had it really come to this now?

"Let me take him, my lady."

Galadriel looked up, and saw Gil-galad behind her. Without further ado, he picked up Rúmil, and though the warrior wore full armour, it seemed to Galadriel as if the king was carrying a doll.

"And what about her, Sire?" Amaris asked, pointing at Firinwë, who was beginning to move again.

"Take care of that mess any way you like."

"Very well then," Amaris replied, grabbing Firinwë by the collar and dragging her back to the camp like a sack of flour.

"It is always the same," he muttered. "He is the hero in shiny armour, I have to clean up."

* * *

The enemy had fled; the victorious tended to their wounded and lighted pyres for their dead. Elcallon found it very hard to understand what was going on. To him it was like being trapped in a nightmare, and while he did not doubt that freedom was a wonderful thing to have, he secretly missed the safety of the palace back in Breon. He had been lied to and cheated, that was true, but at least he had not witnessed death and blood and Elves screaming in pain.

"This must be very confusing for you," Orophin said. Elcallon turned around, grateful to see a familiar face.

"I do not understand this. I feel – helpless."

"You not helpless. You got bow, and if bow not work, you use teeth."

Elcallon almost fell in the mud when Mauburz handed out her helpful advice. Orophin caught him in time.

"Do not fear – Mauburz is a friend, she lives in the same place that I call home, in Imladris. See the Elf over there? That is Lord Elrond, the master of Imladris."

Elrond, who had just come from the battlefield where he had made sure all wounded had been brought to the tent of healing, heard his name and approached Orophin. He stared at the tall Elf next to him.

"What are you doing here, Orophin? And while we are at it: what is Celeborn doing here? And what lunatic is responsible for Feronil's presence? Did my family think Orcs would not be enough to keep us busy here?"

This was a tricky question, especially for a bad liar like Orophin.

"I would prefer it if we discussed this some other time," Orophin said, eyeing Elrond nervously. This would be a very long and very complicated story to tell, including some incidents in Imladris that he'd rather not tell Elrond now. Or tomorrow. Or ever.

Elrond regarded him with suspicion, but then the Elf standing next to his son-in-law caught his attention again. He felt as if he had seen him before, but when?

"As you wish. I wonder if I even want to know. But pray tell, where have you come from, my friend?"

Elcallon shook his head, still very confused.

"I do not know. First I was there, then I was here, then there was that Elf in a skirt, and then there was a light and a fight, and…"

"He hit his head," Orophin interrupted. "Badly. I think I had better take him to the tent of healing now, and I have to look after Rúmil, too."

"That seems a very good idea," Elrond replied. "Later, I will come and see if you need anything. What is your name, friend?"

Elrond's calm and friendliness were a blessing to the frightened Elf.

"My name is Elcallon," he said, and smiled at Elrond. The effect of that smile on the lord of Imladris was as if he had been hit by a bolt of lightning.

"I will definitely come to see if there is anything I can do… you need… might wish…" he stuttered, then quickly headed for the tent of healing.

Mauburz had watched this exchange with increasing interest. Now she poked Elcallon's arm with one of her claws.

"You, Elcallon – you have Elf wife at home?"

"I – what?"

"Elf wife. Wife of Elf."

"Eh… no?"

"No wife. Good. Husband?"

"What?"

By now Elcallon was convinced that due to some deity's cruel sense of humour he had ended up in a camp full of lunatics. He decided it was better to play along than to infuriate a heavily armed Uruk'hai.

"No husband," he finally croaked.

Mauburz winked at Orophin.

"That good! That very good!"

Elcallon closed his eyes. In hindsight, the dungeon had not been that bad after all.

* * *

"I dare say that this is the biggest mess we have had on Arda since the trouble with the Silmarils," Lórien said, looking at the Elves he had summoned to the clearing where the camp had been set up.

"Some superior beings we are – a Hobbit could have handled this better than us!"

"Could we have this discussion later, please?" Manwë hissed through clenched teeth. "You are not exactly helping our predicament here!"

"But it is true!" Lórien protested. "I lost track of this story long ago. We should have paid more attention, and you, of all the Vala, should know that."

"Quiet!" Manwë thundered.

Lórien shrugged. "As you wish. Allow me to look after one of my children while you prepare your little speech here, then."

The Elves looked at each other, amused by the antics of the two Vala.

"I cannot help noticing they sound like you and I," Gil-galad whispered to Amaris.

"I hope Eru will have mercy and keep them apart once he sees how I suffer," Amaris whispered back.

Meanwhile, Lórien had approached Celeborn. He stood next to Galadriel and Orophin, not hearing or seeing anything, but sensing that the battle must be over. Lórien stopped in front of him, and the Elves took a step back, with exception of Orophin, who would not leave his lord's side.

Lórien shook his head.

"It is terrible what has happened to you, my child." He gently ran his hand once over Celeborn's face. "The spell is now broken."

After the long time of silence and darkness, Celeborn almost fainted at the overwhelming sensation of light and colours, voices and the neighing of the horses. He stumbled and was caught by Orophin, who helped him to sit on the ground.

"You have been through dark times, but now everything will be well."

"Where is Rúmil?" Celeborn asked, shading his eyes against the light. "And where is Melpomaen? I know he was here! He saved my life!"

Galadriel and Orophin looked at each other, and when he saw her shake her head, he urged Celeborn once again to sit down.

"Please rest, my lord," he said. "All will be well."

Manwë raised his hand, and immediately all conversation ceased. The Elves stared in awe at the Vala, who looked a little uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat, and glared daggers at Lórien, who stood among the Elves and feigned a yawn.

"Return to your homes now, my children. Nobody shall disturb the peace of your houses any more. We shall take those responsible for this chaos with us; you have my word that justice shall be done."

"Very vague," Lórien mouthed.

Manwë counted silently to ten. Then he addressed Galadriel.

"Now there is only one last thing to do, child of the Golden Wood. Return the ring to me; it has caused enough unhappiness, and shall not remain in the hands of the Firstborn any longer."

Galadriel reached in her pocket. She placed the ring on the palm of her hand and looked at it. Just a plain ring, no adornments, no letters. And all this trouble because of that little item of jewellery? She considered the matter for a moment.

"I shall give you the ring, my lord Manwë," she finally said. "But I ask you for a favour in return."

"A favour? Now, that is most unusual." The Valar did not look pleased.

"Indeed. Usually they ask for three favours, so giver her what she wants and do not delay our return," Lórien said.

Manwë, who had seen enough of Arda, Elves and rings to last him for at least five ages, agreed for once with Lórien.

"So be it. Come here and tell me your wish, my child."

Galadriel's hand closed tightly around the ring. This time, she would truly defeat Námo.

 

* * *

It had been difficult to make Erestor leave Melpomaen's side for a moment, but Elrond had been persistent and Erestor had eventually given in.

Erestor was confused, terribly so. He had seen Melpomaen attacked, then the next thing he knew, they were both in the tent of healing. He had no recollection of the goings-on in-between those two moments. Erestor remembered rage, but that was all. There was an awful taste in his mouth, and he spat on the ground several times to get rid of it.

Elrond grabbed him by the arm and dragged him outside.

"Erestor, I have done all I could for your son, but I am not sure he will make it through the day."

Upon hearing Elrond referring to Melpomaen as his "son", Erestor jumped, staring at him in shock.

"Erestor, did you really think I would not know? But we have no time for this now. I am in great sorrow about Melpomaen, his wounds are grave and my ability to heal him here is limited. You must tell him the truth."

"The truth? Now? Are you insane?" Erestor cried, and pulled free of Elrond's grasp. "How can I confess now that I have lied to him for centuries? Given him up, denied him? He will heal, and once he is strong enough, I will tell him. But not now."

"He has the right to make his choice, Erestor! How can you be so cruel as to deny him it? We cannot know what would happen if he were to die without knowing who he is. Would he go to the Halls of Waiting? Or would he pass on to the place mortals go? As a half-elf, he has the right to make his choice, whether to be counted among the Firstborn or the mortals."

Erestor shook his head.

"I will not do this."

"Then I will."

Glorfindel had come to stand behind Erestor.

"You have no right to do this!" Erestor snapped. "I am his father, not you!"

"It seems a little late in the day to claim your rights as a father, Erestor. What has happened to you? I never thought you selfish."

It could not have hurt Erestor more if Glorfindel had stabbed him with a sword right through his heart. And it hurt all the more because he knew that his beloved was right. He was thinking of himself. He was scared witless of seeing the contempt and hurt in Melpomaen's eyes upon learning that his much-admired mentor was nothing but a coward.

"You do not know what you ask of me, Fin."

Glorfindel took Erestor by the shoulders and shook him slightly.

"Erestor, my own son died in my arms, and it was entirely my fault that I lost him. We make mistakes. We are not perfect. And the consequences of those mistakes may follow us to the end of all days. I know that you are scared, but please, Erestor, if you love your son, go to him now. It might be your last chance to speak to him. You would never forgive yourself if you missed it."

Your son. Your son. Why did they have to repeat this over and over again? As if he did not know – had it not been he who brought Melpomaen to Imladris? Found a family for him? Watched over him and later taken him under his wing? Had this not been enough?

No. Of course not. And Erestor knew it.

"I will talk to him," he finally said, pulling free of Glorfindel and heading for the tent.

* * *

Melpomaen was in a dream-like state. He could see and hear the Elves around him, but the noise was muffled. His head seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, and he had lost all sense of his body. Luckily, this also meant he did not feel any pain. Through half-lidded eyes he watched Rúmil, who had been placed in the bed opposite his. Rúmil did not move, and the paleness of his face as well as the numerous bandages did not bode well for his health. Celeborn sat by his side, holding his hand. Melpomaen could see that he was crying.

Why was Celeborn sitting by Rúmil's side? Did he not care for him anymore? That was a pain Melpomaen could still feel, an ice-cold stab through his heart, a hard ball in his stomach. And Erestor had left as well. By now Melpomaen was close to missing even Feronil, but the advisor was nowhere in sight. He was probably looking after the boy.

The flap of the large tent moved slightly, and Melpomaen saw a tall Elf entering. How beautiful – was it possible for any being to move so gracefully? The long black hair held back in one single, simple braid, the plain black garb – there was nothing extraordinary about the Elf but his face. Amazing beauty, but also terribly frightening... white skin, razor-thin lips and black eyes. Melpomaen had to think of the water of the Bruínen in winter, dark and cold, and he held his breath for a moment upon realising who had come to visit.

A young archer from Lothlórien who had never regained conscience after being shot in the back by an Orc opened his eyes all of a sudden. He stared at the visitor and smiled.

"So you have come for me, my Lord Námo," he said.

The Vala nodded.

"It is time. For you and some of your kin. Are you prepared for our journey?"

"Oh yes, my lord. I have been longing for your visit."

Námo nodded. He walked slowly down the aisle between the two rows of beds, sometimes stopping before a bed and holding out his hand to the injured. They all heard Namó's call, and did not resist.

Melpomaen wondered if Námo would claim him too. But he did not feel like dying yet! He was not prepared for the Halls of Waiting, too many things had been left undone! But if his life were not in danger, he would not have seen Námo in the first place. If only Celeborn were here, or Erestor. Melpomaen's confidence in those two Elves was so vast that he did not doubt they would fight even one of the Valar if they had to.

Námo came to stand beside Rúmil's bed, and Melpomaen caught his breath. He saw Rúmil slowly opening his eyes, looking at the Vala.

"How about you, my child? Do you wish to end your journey?"

Rúmil shook his head tiredly.

"As you wish. Stubborn as usual," Námo replied, and continued his inspection.

Melpomaen was distracted from his observations by Erestor, who had returned to his bedside. He looked terrible – dirty and tired, with a haunted expression on his face.

"Are you awake, Melpomaen?" he asked. "I need to talk to you."

Very slowly, Melpomaen turned his head in Erestor's direction, producing a faint smile.

"I can hear you, Master Erestor. It is very kind of you to come and keep me company."

Erestor fiddled with the ring he wore, turning it around and around on his finger.

"It is not kindness that brings me here, Melpomaen. There is something I have to tell you, and it will come as a shock. Please do not get upset or angry, Melpomaen, not now. You may ask for my head on a plate later on when you are back on your feet, but for now, I just want you to listen to me."

Námo had reached the end of the tent and was now moving in Melpomaen's direction. Erestor would have to hurry up if he had something important to say.

"Please speak freely, Master Erestor."

Erestor took Melpomaen's hand, a gesture that touched the young Elf but also scared him. This was not the behaviour he would have expected from the stern advisor.

"Melpomaen, do you know how you came to live with your family?"

He frowned – what an odd question!

"Of course I do, Master Erestor. You found me in an abandoned village, my real parents being dead, and brought me to Imladris, finding a home for me."

Erestor shook his head.

"That was a lie. And I am the liar, Melpomaen. A liar and a coward. Many, many years ago, I was sent to Gondor, where I met a mortal woman, fell in love with her and lost her to the fever. She was your mother. You are my son, Melpomaen."

Had Erestor just told him that he was his father? Námo was now standing beside Erestor, a curious expression on his face. It was clear to see Erestor had no idea that the Vala had come to watch the family reunion.

Melpomaen groaned.

"Please do not get upset! Are you in pain? Shall I fetch Elrond?" Erestor asked anxiously.

"No, it is nothing, merely a headache. So if you tell the truth, why did you give me away? Why did you lie to me all those years?"

"I never thought I could be a good father to you. I wanted you to grow up in a loving family, surrounded by light and laughter, not to be trapped with an advisor full of self-doubts and bitterness."

"And why tell me now?"

Erestor swallowed hard.

"Your injuries are grave, Melpomaen. While we are all confident that you will recover, there is the small chance that… see, with your mother being a mortal, you are a half-elf, and as such, you have the choice to be counted among the Firstborn or the mortals. This choice must be made before you – before you…"

He broke off and covered his eyes with his hands. Melpomaen looked first at this newly-found father, then at Námo.

"I am not here to take you with me," Námo answered Melpomaen's unspoken question. "Enjoy your newly found family and live a fulfilled life, so that you may have something to tell me on the day we eventually meet again."

He winked at Melpomaen – what an outrageous thing for the Vala of Death to do! – then left the tent, taking the fallen Elves with him.

There was a long silence. Then Melpomaen smiled.

"That is fine by me," he said.

Erestor looked up.

"Fine?"

"Yes. Fine. I had a wonderful childhood, loving parents and siblings. Why should I complain? You did what you thought was the best thing to do at that moment. Who am I to judge? It cannot have been easy for you, either."

Erestor was flabbergasted. He had expected anything from fury to tears, but not acceptance without further questions.

Melpomaen, feeling much better all of a sudden, snuggled deeper into his pillow.

"I am very tired. Please do not worry, I just need to sleep for a while. Why do you not return to Glorfindel? I am sure he is waiting for you."

Erestor tucked the blanket tighter around Melpomaen, just as he had done when his son had been a wee Elfling. Then he pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"I would not be so sure about that."

"But I am, ada," Melpomaen murmured, and when Erestor finally left the tent, he found that his son had been right all along. Glorfindel stood there, ready to take him into his arms and hold him.

* * *

The sound of voices and the neighing of horses filled the air. The Elven army was preparing to leave, the tent with the injured the only one still standing. Melpomaen, deeply and soundly asleep after drinking one of Elrond's draughts, and Rúmil, who had suffered the worst injuries, were the last patients. Rúmil was determined to stand up and leave with his army for Lothlórien. Celeborn sat by his side, making sure that he was really eating his meal and staying in bed. At times, Rúmil felt like an Elfling again. He had always thought Orophin was a pain in the neck, but Celeborn surpassed him by far when it came to fussing.

"Are you sure you feel well enough to ride, Rúmil?" Celeborn asked. "We can stay here a little longer, find a village close by to make camp. I could stay with you and make sure you receive all the care you need."

Rúmil shook his head.

"Thank you for your concern, my lord. I really appreciate it, but I cannot wait to see Lothlórien again. I miss the trees and the river."

"You will return, and then it will be your responsibility to look after our people – and Galadriel."

Rúmil slipped back under the covers. This was not really a subject he wished to discuss, especially not with Celeborn, of all Elves!

"Do not hide, Rúmil. Eru certainly knew what he was doing when he filled Galadriel's heart with love for you. I am not angry. I have nobody to blame but myself. I shall follow Elrond back to Imladris, and will hopefully find a new home there. Though my heart will always be in Lothlórien – I hope you will allow me to visit once in a while."

Celeborn was not exactly renowned for being sensible and lenient, and Rúmil wondered if this might be just another example of his lord's sarcasm. But no – the clear blue eyes showed honest concern, there was no anger.

"I do not know what to say, my lord. This is all so terribly confusing. Galadriel, you, the ring, the war – all this was difficult to understand, but all those revelations about our families! I feel like a character out of a very badly written tale. Orophin is Haldir's father. Melpomaen is Erestor's son. Glorfindel has a brother who is a bit on the batty side. By the Valar, one more revelation about long-lost relatives, and I shall lose my mind!"

Celeborn took Rúmil's hand, looking sheepish and a little guilty.

"Rúmil, I have to tell you something, but you must promise me something first: do not get upset, do not scream, do not try to strangle me or hit me with a blunt object. Promise?"

There was an expression of greatest suspicion on Rúmil's face, but he nodded.

"You have my word, my lord. I shall stay calm, whatever you tell me."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I am a Galadhel – nothing could shock me enough to break my promise."

Celeborn sighed.

"Very well then. Let us talk about your parents."

* * *

"Good grief, what was that?" Erestor asked, jumping upon hearing the hysterical scream coming from the tent of healing. It was followed by a flood of rude words, and the voice uttering them sounded a lot like Rúmil's, but surely he would not lose his composure like that?

"Either somebody tried to take the wine away from Gil-galad or else Celeborn finally confessed that he is Rúmil's father. It will be easy to tell – if Celeborn turns up with a blackened eye, we will know that all family crises have been solved to everybody's satisfaction."

Erestor had to smile. That was his Glorfindel again. How he had missed his sarcasm, annoying as it was at times!

"All family crises? How about ours?"

Glorfindel raked his hair with his fingers.

"Erestor – whatever I did, whatever I said, I cannot remember. The last thing I remember before waking up here was sitting in Elrond's rose garden. But this you may believe: in my heart, I never forgot you."

Erestor caressed his cheek.

"I know, Fin. I know."

He kissed him again, and Nonfindel, who sat next to his brother, gently elbowed Thranduil in the side.

"See, my king? That is true love. Sweet nothings in the middle of a battlefield. It warms my heart to see that romance is still alive! Would you believe that this big romantic here is the same Elf that cut off my braids to adorn his kite with when we were Elflings? Ah, time goes by so swiftly. How is your ankle, by the way?"

Thranduil felt like he had a living cat in his stomach.

"My ankle hurts, and I feel terrible. And those sweet nothings make me feel nauseated. Could you please take your hands out of my hair? This is outrageous! Is there nobody else around that you could annoy?"

Nonfindel grinned.

"Your hair is a mess and needs some care. But do not worry, my king, I understand what you are trying to tell me. I do not expect you to speak it out loud, as I can see that you are shy. I accept your invitation, and will happily follow you to Mirkwood!"

"Mirkwood? You will not be going to Mirkwood! I will go and throw myself on a sword before I have you in my kingdom! Go to Imladris! Return to Lothlórien! Or, even better, go to Mordor! Bother Dwarves or Hobbits! Just do not bother me!"

"I have never seen my father so enthusiastic about anyone," Legolas grinned. "It will be a delight to have you as a guest in our realm, Nonfindel."

"Traitor," Thranduil hissed.

Then he gave up his struggle and allowed Nonfindel to comb his hair. After all it was not that unpleasant.

* * *

"And why is it again that the mortals call us wise, beloved?" Glorfindel asked Erestor, watching the bickering with increasing amusement.

"I guess they give us a lot of credit because they like our ears, Fin."

Glorfindel chuckled, put an arm around Erestor's shoulders and pulled him close.

"I cannot wait to be home. I dream of cosy evenings by the fire…"

"… of screaming Elflings in the wee hours of the morning, dirty nappies, stomach cramps, squabbling among siblings…"

"… but no more adventures, battles, fighting and danger. We shall spend the next ages in peace and harmony."

Erestor rubbed his cheek on Glorfindel's chest.

"That does not sound very exciting, beloved. One day a scribe will write our memoirs, and call them 'Yawning and Idleness in Imladris'."

Fin scratched his head.

"How about 'The most boring life of Master Erestor of Imladris' then?"

"I like that," Erestor said. "But I pity the person who has to write that tale."

* * *

Firinwë awoke from a deep slumber, feeling rested and refreshed. She looked around – what place was this? A luxurious room, with silken bed sheets and intricately carved furniture. Through the open windows she could see a clear blue sky. Birds were singing, and when she sat up, she found the floor was covered with a white carpet so soft that she sunk in to her ankles.

"So that is what the afterlife is like? By the Valar, had I known this earlier, I would not have fought so hard to stay alive!"

"I take it you approve of your chambers?"

Firinwë spun around.

"Who are you?" she asked the tall dark Elf, who seemed oddly out of place. He indicated a bow.

"I am Námo, my lady, also known as the Vala of Death, or Mandos, Keeper of the Halls of Waiting. I am here to see that you receive everything you are entitled to."

She laughed.

"This is amazing!"

"It is. And you have not seen the best part of your chambers yet, my lady. This way, please."

Námo pointed at a golden door.

"What is it?" Firinwë asked curiously.

"The private pool, my lady. I really hope you will enjoy it."

"How delightful! A hot bath is just the thing I need now."

She reached for a soft, white morning gown and slipped into it.

"You may call anytime if you should need me again, my lady," Námo said.

"I will," Firinwë replied, batting her lashes at the Vala. Then she opened the door.

"Valar! What is that?" she cried, but before she could take a step back, Námo had pushed her forward and quickly closed the door behind her. For a brief moment, the stench of sulphur and rotten meat filled the air, but it did not linger, unlike Firinwë's screams.

"That was truly evil," Lórien said, stretching out on the bed and poking at the cushion with his index finger to check its softness.

Námo shrugged.

"What can I say – I have a dark sense of humour."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

"There he goes," Gil-galad stated.

"Good thing you pointed it out to me, I would not have noticed."

Gil decided that this was not the right moment for one of their daily squabbles. This aside, he wanted to watch Elrond for as long as possible. The Lord of Imladris and Elcallon crossed the bridge, then disappeared into the forest.

Amaris came to stand by Gil-galad's side, looking out of the window. Imladris would not be the same without Elrond's calming presence. There would be arguments galore, and not everybody would suffer Elrohir gladly as interim Master of the Last Homely House. More than one advisor and council member had protested that Elladan, the older, should look after Imladris during Elrond's absence.

But this was the way Elladan wanted it. He had always known he was a healer, not a statesman. He lacked the diplomatic skills for that, while Elrohir could charm Dwarf lords out of their armour. Elrohir was wiser, knew more about the history of his people, and unlike Elladan, he had inherited some of his father's gift of foresight.

So they had agreed after long discussions and arguments that Elladan would look after the House of Healing, while Elrohir would care for Imladris. Elrohir was nervous about this task, but he knew that Erestor and Glorfindel would be by his side.

"Two years. That should not count for much if you are immortal, yet I feel as if he would be gone for two ages," Gil-galad said.

Amaris frowned.

"You will miss him," he stated.

"I will, very much, actually. He is one of the few things that connect me with my former life."

Amaris turned away.

"Good thing you found him again then," he said, "considering there is nobody else here in Imladris who was part of your old life. And now please excuse me, I have an appointment with Glorfindel on the training grounds."

Gil noticed the sharp edge to Amaris' voice well, and he held him back by the arm.

"Amaris – you know that you hold my heart. There is no need for jealousy."

Amaris spun around and folded his arms over his chest.

"With all due respect, Sire – I wish to leave. I do not want to drink from Elrond's glasses anymore, eat from his plates or make love to you in one of Elrond's bloody guest beds!"

"But they are very comfortable," Gil-galad protested, ducking just in time to avoid the vase Amaris threw at him. He even managed to catch it in full flight, placing it carefully on a side table.

"Amaris, you really should not break Elrond's vases."

"Do you know what you can do with Elrond's vase?" Amaris yelled.

Gil-galad nodded.

"Yes. But I do not think he would like it. But now in all seriousness – what is wrong?"

Amaris began to pace up and down the room.

"I feel useless, Ereinion. Absolutely useless. You and I are anachronisms. We were warriors living in a warrior's time, and now we sit here in Imladris, watching the flowers grow. There is no purpose for us."

Gil-galad, who had secretly felt the same, stopped Amaris' restless pacing and took him in his arms.

"It is my fault. We should not be here. But as this cannot be changed – what do you suggest?"

"I want to go home."

Gil-galad swallowed hard.

"Home as in – Mirkwood? As in spiders, poisonous plants, gossiping trees and batty king?"

Amaris nodded and gave him a blinding smile.

"Well Amaris, if this is what makes you happy, then I shall follow you. But do you not think that Thranduil the Exceptional and Impressive, Most Splendid and Feared Ruler of Mirkwood, King by the Valar's Grace, Ruler of 2000 Years, Shining Star of Greenwood The Green, Fairest of all Elven Lords, Light of the Dark Ages, Son of Oropher the magnificent, etc. etc. etc. might have certain objections? I fear that the very moment I set foot on his realm, a war should break out."

Amaris grinned.

"Do not worry, Sire. Now that he has Nonfindel for comparison, he would even welcome Sauron himself with open arms."

* * *

"My master wishes to speak to you."

As usual, no "please" was attached to this statement, and though Fëanor did not have the slightest wish to see Námo, he put his book aside and stood up.

Being called to Námo's office usually meant trouble. He would probably be informed that another one of his former enemies had arrived, and that he had better stay away from the Great Hall for a couple of weeks. Or months. Or, in some cases, years.

Fëanor did not mind. He did not care for company, and was heartily tired of hostile glares following him where ever he went. Nobody could hold grudges like Elves! Not even Dwarves.

Admittedly, they all had good reason to hate him. Looking back at his life, there were many things he would have done differently, but he could not undo his deeds.

He watched the back of Námo's servant. They all looked the same; black-haired, pale shadows, walking without a sound and never showing any emotion. Fëanor wondered what they really were, for he was quite sure that what he saw here was only a form they had taken to ...

He had not seen the doomsman of the Valar for a long time. Come to think of it, nobody had seen him for a lengthy period, which was rather peculiar. The servant knocked and opened the door, beckoning Fëanor to enter. He looked up at the many shelves, reaching up so high that he could not see their end. Some said that the dusty tomes held the history of every Elf that had ever lived. Fëanor wondered what his book must look like if that was true. Probably black, bound in wargskin, with a note attached that it should not be handed out to Elflings and those of a nervous disposition.

Fëanor had expected to find Námo behind his desk, writing or reading as usual, but the Vala stood by the window, overlooking the sea.

"Your time has come," Námo said, without turning around to his visitor. "You will return to Arda."

"What?"

Fëanor took a step back.

"I do not wish to return! What would I do there? Hide for all eternities from those who wish to see my head on a pike?"

Námo pushed the curtain a little further to the side and opened the window. The cool, salty seabreeze filled the room, chasing away the dust and the stale air. A scent of nutmeg mingled with the fresh air, and Fëanor heard Námo take in a deep breath.

This was odd. Námo never breathed, so why did he do it now?

"Your wishes are irrelevant. And do not fear, you will not return as you were. You shall be reborn, and will not remember your former life. This is my blessing to you."

Fëanor's head spun.

"Reborn? Where to? And in what form? As a dung beetle? Earthworm?"

Námo chuckled. Hearing this sound from the stern Vala confused Fëanor completely. Breathing, chuckling - what would come next? Smiling? All this was unheard of!

"Dung beetle? Ah no, no, I do not think it would be wise to reunite you with your friends yet. I was more thinking along the lines of an Elf. You will be reborn the son of a great Elven lord, and I would be grateful if you could avoid any kind of oaths this time. Do you think you can manage?"

"I do not wish to be reborn!"

"How unfortunate, for you do not have a choice. And now you may leave."

Fëanor wanted to protest again, but everything went black and he lost consciousness.

* * *

It had been a good Yule Eve, Elrohir decided, despite his father's absence. The cook had outdone himself and prepared a meal worthy of a king. Glorfindel, with Estorel perched on his lap, had told the most hilarious tales, making everybody laugh. Even Erestor, holding tiny Lórindel, had smiled all evening long. The infant pulled faces which Glorfindel, the proud father, declared to be expressions of amusement. Erestor, however, told him that it was rather a case of constipation.

Elrohir had been surrounded by smiling, happy faces, by couples wishing each other a merry Yuletide, hugging and kissing. He had envied neither Glorfindel kissing Erestor, nor Orophin taking Elladan's hand and squeezing it while Lindir sang traditional tunes of a merry Yule. Two cases of wine had arrived from Mirkwood, a present from Gil-galad and Amaris. Elrohir missed them sorely, but they all deserved happiness, and he had had a smile on his face all evening long.

But now, back in his chambers, this smile disappeared. It was cold there, and lonely. One floor down, Orophin was probably unravelling Elladan's braids as they celebrated Yule Eve in their own, private way.

Like one who picks at a scab to see if the wound underneath has healed, Elrohir thought of Orophin as Elladan's husband to see if the thought still hurt. It did not. So he should be happy now, should he not?

Elrohir sighed and began to undress. He should really stop thinking of Námo and the strange dream he connected with him. He and everybody else in Middle-earth had probably been nothing but a brief distraction for the spiritual being. Elrohir did not blame him, for what use could a Vala have for a mere Elf?

A quick wash in the bathing chamber, then Elrohir slipped between the sheets. He listened to the many sounds which filled the Last Homely House despite the late hour: a door closing; the roof groaning under its heavy load of snow. These were comforting, familiar sounds, and so Elrohir, despite his melancholic mood, fell asleep very quickly.

He dreamt of a sunny meadow, laughing children and Námo, sitting on a stone and watching him, Elrohir, bathing in the Bruínen. How upset had he been back then with his uninvited watcher, and how he missed him now!

Elrohir woke up, and it took him a moment to adjust. What a realistic dream! Looking out of the window, he could see the thick curtain of snowflakes, in the first dim light of the early morning. And yet, he still had the scent of summer flowers in his nose, and the memory of Námo's smile.

Sighing, he pulled the covers up over his shoulder, and tried to fall asleep again, until he heard the unexpected but unmistakeable sound of somebody eating.

Had a snake slipped into his bed, Elrohir would not have sat up faster.

"These almond pastries are delicious," Námo said in a conversational tone, "especially if you dip them in wine first. Have you ever tried it? Most interesting. I wonder what they would taste like with mustard."

Elrohir did not answer, just stared at Námo. He wore his usual garb, black leather and velvet, and was spread out elegantly on the other side of the bed, licking his long fingers clean. He smiled at Elrohir, showing two rows of white, sharp teeth.

"You do not happen to have any mustard here, do you?"

Elrohir pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Mustard?"

"Yes. But do not worry; I can try to find some tomorrow. I am curious to see how mustard would taste with grapes."

The thought of grapes with mustard alone made Elrohir's stomach turn, not to mention the shock of Námo's visit. The Vala put the plate aside, and with a movement faster than Elrohir's eyes could catch, he rolled onto the young Elf, pressing him down into the mattress.

"I would have expected more enthusiasm about my return, young one. Would you rather I left again?"

Elrohir closed his eyes for a moment. Námo was a very solid weight, and the Vala was tugging playfully on Elrohir's earlobe with his teeth.

"Your appearances have never hurt, but your departures did. I am not a toy, Námo, here for you to play with and throw away the next day."

Námo frowned.

"Who is speaking of departures? I have no intention of leaving."

Elrohir's eyes grew as wide as saucers.

"No?"

Námo shook his head, then he slowly licked Elrohir's neck, leaving a wet trail from his collarbone to his ear.

"Eru in his eternal wisdom has decided it is better that I cause confusion among the Firstborn than among the Vala for the time being. And who am I to argue with Eru? I hope you do not mind if I stay here."

Elrohir would have loved to answer, but Námo kissed him, so he could not speak. He was too busy exploring his lover's mouth and in between times trying to catch his breath. Námo was not one of the sweet, gentle lovers Elrohir was used to. He was demanding in his love, and there was no doubt about who led this encounter. But Elrohir was more than happy to follow him. The feeling of soft leather on his skin almost drove him insane, and he groaned with disappointment when Námo rolled off him, a wicked grin on his face.

"You do not seem to mind, I see."

"I have dreamt of this," Elrohir whispered. "I have been looking for you, in every tree, in the depths of the Bruínen. You took a part of me with you when you left."

"I dare say that this statement is very true. Your search for Námo is over now, Elrohir. You have found me."

The Vala chuckled, raking his fingernails over Elrohir's groin. He seemed very pleased with the reaction this caused.

"I see you are enjoying yourself, young one. But this will have to wait, as I have not come alone."

Námo clapped his hands and a large basket appeared on the bed. Elrohir jumped, and moved away from it when he realised that the basket was moving.

Námo rolled his eyes.

"No, I have not brought snakes or dragons with me, young one. Come and see for yourself."

Elrohir swallowed hard, but he obeyed.

It was a large wicker basket, and the wriggling contents were covered with a blanket of dark red velvet. Elrohir looked to Námo, who gave him an encouraging smile. So Elrohir reached out swallowed hard and pulled the cover away.

Elrohir was prepared for snakes, Wargs or even puppies, but not for the two most beautiful babies he had ever seen. Granted, his experience of Elflings was limited, but these children were perfect. Tiny fists pressed against their mouths, the little boys slept peacefully. Soft black hair covered their heads, and Elrohir was fascinated by the tiny, leaf-shaped ears.

He reached out to touch the Elfling closest to him, whose slate eyes were half covered in reverie, but hesitated.

"This is Elvoron," Námo explained, "the older of the twins. He will have the body of a warrior, the hands of an artist and the attention span of a butterfly. Do touch him; he will not bite you - yet. He has no teeth."

Elrohir rested his hand on the Elfling's tummy, and was amazed at how large it looked against the tiny body. Elvoron did not move, but his brother began to stir, and opened his eyes fully. Tiny hands began to reach out, and the Elfling gave a mewling sound.

Elrohir frowned. The eyes of the child looked veiled, as if hidden behind a curtain.

"They are twins, born within the same day, Elrohir," Námo explained. "He is the younger one, called Ellón, for the darkness is always with him."

"What do you mean by that?"

Námo sighed.

"His fëa refused to re-enter this world. There were complications, and when he finally was born, his eyes could not see."

Elrohir stared at Námo in horror.

"He is blind? This is terrible! How will he manage in life?"

Námo looked down at Ellón, and stroked the fine, dark hair on his head. Immediately, the Elfling's head turned to him.

"The Firstborn are full of miracles. He will learn to use his ears and nose better than any other, and become a skilled fighter and feared warrior. But there are limits to what he can do, and so his heart is often full of shadows."

Ellón had finally found Elrohir's hand and was now clinging to his index finger with remarkable strength. Then he let go and tiny arms reached out for Elrohir, a silent demand to be picked up and cuddled.

"It will be difficult for his parents to raise him," Elrohir said.

"We will do remarkably well," Námo answered.

Elrohir stared at Námo.

Then he stared at the Elflings.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, and the enormity of Námo's words began to sink in. He felt like running, screaming, crying, laughing, all at the same time. But in the end, Elrohir followed his heart.

He reached out and took his son in his arms.

* * *

THE END (YIPPIEH!!!)

No, wait... there is an epilogue!


	18. Epilogue- The Fading King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The keeper of the souls of elves finds that the separation between life and death is not as clear-cut anymore as it once was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Rabbit and the concept of the Plains Elves are creations by the ever lovely Magic Rat (delaese on LJ) and used with permission.
> 
> Beta: Eveiya

Many, many years after the happenings in the last chapter of Finding Námo, the day before Yule in Minas Tirith...

* * *  
Rúmil stood by the window and took in a deep breath of the cold wither air. Lothlórien was scented with Yule. There was laughter in the air, merriment, and behind him, his wife and son were decorating the Yule tree. It was a wonderful, peaceful evening, and of course he could count on his wife to ruin the mood.

"Estel is ill. We will leave for Minas Tirith," Galadriel said, and cut off the thread which she had used to fix a gold-painted apple to the Yule tree. She might as well have said "the cookies are in the oven" or "the weather is nice." Celon, her oldest son, looked at her with big eyes, while Rúmil, being used to his wife's ways, neither asked why nor what, but "When?"

"Tomorrow," she replied.

"Very well, I will ask the Eagles for their help."

"Thank you, my beloved." Galadriel pressed a soft kiss on Rúmil's cheek. "I knew I could count on you."

"Of course you can. And while I am at it, I will see to it that we will have a crane to lift you onto the Eagle, my dear."

Galadriel, heavily pregnant with their second child, bestowed a scathing look on her husband. Alas, after 115 years of marriage, scathing looks and disapproving glares bounced off the lord of Lothlórien like water off a duck's back.

"May I come with you as well, nana? Ada? I am old enough, and I do not want to be alone on Yule," Celon said. Galadriel and Rúmil looked at each other, then Rúmil nodded.

"You may. Just make sure you are out of the way when your mother gets sick on the Eagle."

Galadriel poked her tongue at Rúmil, Rúmil poked his tongue at Galadriel, and Celon, not for the first time, thought to himself that his parents were rather silly for a lord and a lady.

* * *

Arwen's grief had been so strong that Galadriel had been able to feel it in Lothlórien. Her pain had been like a grey shadow covering her soul, and now, that the Eagles landed outside the gates of Minas Tirith, sadness and pain towered in front of her like a thick wall.

"You were right, nana," Celon said, "something is amiss here."

"Of course I am right," Galadriel replied, while Celon and Rúmil helped her descend the eagle. It was a complicated undertaking, for her pregnancy was already very much advanced.

"Your nana is always right. Even if she is not. That is one of the eternal laws of Lothlórien," Rúmil said, and winked at this son.

Galadriel whacked him playfully on the head.

The two soldiers guarding the gates of the White City bowed deeply when they recognised their noble visitors, and one of them offered immediately to lead the Elves to the palace. A brief look at Galadriel's bulging stomach let the man correctly assume that there was no way the lady would be able to walk up the seven levels to the palace, and so he went to fetch some means of transportation.

"I wonder why those silly Eagles did not land near the Citadel... I hope he will find something to transport nana," Celon worried, and his father nodded.

"With a bit of luck, they have a Mumak over left from the last battle," Rúmil said, "that would be the least we would need to move her."

Galadriel's mood did not improve in the least when she found herself on the back of a scruffy donkey cart. This would give Rúmil monition for teasing to last at least two Ages! So much for the impeccable manners of the men of Númenor...

Nobody could be seen on the usually busy streets of Minas Tirith. The market, buzzing with life on her last visit, lay abandoned and not even cats or dogs roamed the streets. Nothing resembled the merry Yule spirits they had found in Lothlórien, no decoration could be seen - it was as if Yule would not happen this year.

The whole city seemed to be petrified. _My worst fears must be true then,_ Galadriel thought, and her heart grew heavy with sadness.

Celon, as about as discreet and diplomatic as his father, tapped the shoulder of the soldier who led the donkey.

"Pray tell, my friend, how are things with the king? Is he going to die?"

The sad look in the man's face was answer enough. He nodded.

"Yes, young master. You've come at the right time; we fear he'll not live to see Yule. He handed over the Winged Crown to his son, and now he lies in his bed, surrounded by his family. It's terrible. Such a fine, wise king he was."

Rúmil and Celon looked in shock at Galadriel, whose face showed neither grief nor surprise, but grim determination.

"So it has come to pass," Galadriel said. "I am glad that I did not let my condition hold me back from coming here."

Father and son looked at each other. They knew that Galadriel was able to know and see things nobody else could, but they were mostly left in darkness about her thoughts. They also knew out of many years of experience that it was fruitless to ask. Galadriel would share her knowledge when she felt it was right to do so, and not a moment earlier.

When the small caravan finally arrived in front of the palace, the guards outside snapped to attention. The Elves thanked the soldier, who returned to his duty, and soon enough they saw Elboron approaching them. Dark shadows were under the man's eyes, and the lines in his face were far too deep for one of is age. The son of Faramir and Éowyn had lost his parents only a few years ago, and now his mentor and good friend was about to leave Arda as well.

"Well met, my lady and lords," he said, and bowed his head in greeting. "I am so very glad that you have come. Our dear queen is grieving, and has expressed many times that she misses her kin very much."

The steward of Gondor lead the way up many stairs, through long corridors, deep into the palace, until finally, they stood in front of a large door. Many of Gondor's dignitaries were waiting here to learn about the state of their king, but they immediately stepped aside when they saw the Elves approaching.

Elboron opened the door, and the small group entered a dark bedroom. The curtains were pulled close, and Celon wrinkled his nose at the scent of medicine in the air. Galadriel felt the urge to tear down the drapes and let air and sun in this room. This was like burying the king when he was still alive!

Eldarion and his sisters stood at the foot side of the large bed. When they noticed the visitors, they all came to hug their great-grandmother, her husband and their son, but it was a silent greeting, lacking all the happiness of previous family reunions.

Arwen did not stand up. She sat beside Estel, holding his hand. Once in a while, she bent over the still figure in the bed and pressed a kiss on the dry lips. She did not seem to notice the visitors, nor the family gathered in the royal bedchamber. All through the years, Estel had been the front and centre of her life; all her thoughts and emotions had revolved around him. Now, in his last hours on Arda, she did not only have to come to terms with the fact that her lover, her best friend, her dearly beloved husband, the father of her children and the companion of so many years would be gone forever.

She also did not have the comfort of a reunion in the afterlife, for his way was not hers, and what happened to mortals after their death only Eru knew.

Her children were all grown up, with families of their own. Eldarion would be a wise and just king, just like his father. Her work here was done. She would wait for her last relatives to sail West, and once the last Elf had left Lothlórien, she would return to the abandoned Golden Wood, lay down under a mallorn tree and fade away.

"You look pale, my lovely child," she suddenly heard her grandmother's voice. Surprised, Arwen looked up.

"Grand-nana!" she sobbed, and fell gratefully into Galadriel's comforting hug.

"There, there, no tears, my little one. I am here now, and I will see to it that everything comes to a good end."

Arwen cried on her shoulder. All the tears she had held back these last weeks for her family's sake were now flowing, and soon Galadriel's robe was soaked with tears and snot. The lady of Lothlórien had to smile, despite the sad occasion. For grandparents, their grandchildren would always stay Elflings, no matter how old they were. And quite obviously, grandchildren would never be too old to snot on robes.

When she felt that Arwen was calming and her sobbing died down, Galadriel pulled free of her granddaughter. Even with blurry eyes and a red nose Arwen was beautiful. What had Estel been thinking? Decide that now was the moment for him to die, after only a hundred years of marriage?

"Arwen, I want you to take the family, including the two I have brought along, and leave me and your husband alone for a short while. Go and have a Yule feast ordered worthy of a king, and send your children out to find a Yule tree. I want this place decorated for a merry holiday."

Arwen stared at her grandmother as if Galadriel had suddenly sprouted a second head.

"But grand-nana... I do not wish to leave him alone, I want to be here when he... when..." she sniffled, but Galadriel stroked her hair and gave her a reassuring smile.

"You have my word that Estel will not leave this world while you are away. Now go, child. Do as I you were told. This matter does not allow any delay."

"You have heard your grandmother. Now out, out, all of you, I am dying to see your latest needlework, Arwen," Rúmil said, and pulled a face.

There was no point trying to defy the united forces of Galadriel and Rúmil. Within a short time, Galadriel was alone with Estel.

She sat for a while and watched him. Still a handsome man, maybe now even more so than in his youth. The haunted expression on his face which she had known all through his young years was gone. He looked peaceful, healthy and he had also gained a few pounds here and there. But it suited him, and nobody expected the king to look for all eternity like he had in his Ranger days.

"Very well then," Galadriel finally said, got up and stretched. She rubbed the small of her back and groaned. Having children was great, but being pregnant was not. Even the most graceful of Elven ladies began to resemble cave trolls in the later stages of the pregnancy, and Galadriel was vain enough to loath looking into her mirror in the morning. Not a pretty sight! And all Rúmil's fault!

Well, at least she would have a daughter this time. Finally! How she had longed for having a little girl again all these centuries!

But she was not here to muse about her appearance or her future daughter. Galadriel went to the nearest window and pulled the heavy velvet curtains aside. A thick cloud of dust emerged from the drapes, and she had to sneeze. Quickly, she opened the window and took a deep breath of fresh air.  
"Much better. I do not understand the mortal's needs of locking themselves away from sun and air in such a way," she said, and turned to Estel, who lay still, pale and silent in his bed.

Galadriel clapped her hands.

"Estel, it is time to get up," she said cheerfully.

No reaction from the man. She clapped again, and when this did not excite any reaction, she sat on the bedside and poked him in the shoulder.

Slowly, with great effort, Estel opened his eyes. It took a while for him to focus on his visitor, but when he realised who was sitting with him, he opened his mouth in surprise.

"Galadriel..." he whispered.

"Indeed. I am glad to see that some wit is left in this thick skull of yours. Now enough with the drama. Get out of that bed and dressed. You have caused enough grief to your family already. It is Yule. The feast is waiting."

Estel's eyes got wide upon hearing these words.

"Galadriel... I am... dying..." he protested with a weak voice.

Galadriel snorted.

"Nonsense. Nobody is going to die around here. What madness got into you, Estel? A man in his best age, lying down to die? Leaving his wife behind with no hope and comfort? Enough, I say! Get up now!"

Estel, who had already felt his soul pass over to the other world, managed to sit up. Galadriel went to the cupboard and gathered some clothes which she carried over to the bed.

"Here. Pull in your stomach and it should fit. I give you five minutes to get decent."

The king held the tunic in his hands, his face one big question mark.

"Galadriel - I am dying!" he said, his voice now clearer and rather insulted.

"No. You are not. No dying. No tomb. No last service. No weeping widow. You will sail West with Arwen within a fortnight, and I am sure my granddaughter would be grateful if you will wear something else but your nightshirt for this occasion."

Galadriel stepped closer to the bed, and pointed at Estel with her index finger.

"You, my dear Estel, set your heart on making my granddaughter your wife. You insisted. None of Celeborn's tantrums held you back. You did not fear my wrath. You moved the skies and Elrond's heart to get her, and now that you have her, you will keep her. No quick escape after only a hundred years of marriage! Marriages are forever and ten days! So get up now, get dressed and face the next Ages like a man!"

She turned around, and heard with great satisfaction how Estel, all of a sudden rather awake, slipped in his clothes. When she heard him lace his tunic, she faced him again.

"Why?" he asked, "Why am I not dying? Why did I feel like my last hour had come, and now I feel so - alive again?"

Galadriel shrugged.

"Imagination, my dear friend, is an amazing thing. How many have died because they were convinced their hour had come? And how many lived because they ignored the fact that, by all rules and laws, they should be dead?"

She stroked the bulge of her stomach.

"Life is a precious gift. See, the Valar offered to grant me one wish if I returned the Ring of Death to them."

Estel looked at her questioningly.

"I admit that my first impulse was to wish for the return of my daughter", Galadriel continued. "I would have given anything to hold my child in my arms once more. But we should not dwell on the past, rather try to improve the future. So I asked them to allow you into Valinor, to live with Arwen for all eternity among those who you have known and loved in your life."

The king's legs gave in, and he sat back on the bed.

"Does this mean... that I'm immortal?" he whispered.

"Indeed."

Estel shook his head.

"Galadriel, the last time mortals aimed for immortality, it ended in a really big mess."

She shrugged.

"You are not telling me anything new here, Estel. I have been there myself, and trust me, I would not wish to see history repeat itself. But considering that this is a gift from the Valar, I think it is safe to say that you sailing to Valinor will not end in a big war, ruined cities, stolen jewels and kinslaying. And now go, your wife and your children are waiting for you."

For a moment, Estel did not move. But then he jumped up, hugged Galadriel very tight and pressed a firm kiss on her cheek before he dashed out of the door. There was silence first, followed by a multi-voiced cheer which made the whole palace tremble.

Galadriel grinned. This journey had been a success, no doubt! Once more, she rubbed the small of her back, then she waddled towards the door. More than anything else she longed to return to the safety of the Golden Wood. There had been enough adventures to last her for at least two more Ages; and what she needed now was a very good foot massage.

How thoughtful of Rúmil to accompany her.

* * *

BUT NOW THAT'S REALLY THE END! THANK YOU!


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